I have come to the borders of sleep,
Yet my eyes will not close.
I am wondering why.
Was it what I ate tonight?
I’m wondering.
Or the wine that I drank;
Or perhaps the heat of the day
Which has continued till now.
I’m wondering. Why?
Is it the warmth of the body
Now slumbering next to my own?
Or the beams of bright light
Filtering through to my face
From the round golden Moon
Which I’ve watched half the night
As the eclipse passed mysteriously by.
I’m wondering why.
Or maybe, just maybe,
’twas the movie we watched:
a classic whodunit, but gory and bloody
and full of strange spirits.
We both were excited, but scared just the same.
I’m still not asleep and I’ve counted more sheep;
Done deep respirations and tried to relax
But still I’m not sleeping
And wondering why.
We put out the light and turned off the cat
So why am I bothering any more about that?
And now it is raining, a little at first,
And now there is more and the wind’s getting up
And keeping me wakeful
The more I ignore it.
We’re away in the morning - a holiday trip;
Our bags ready-packed, await in the hall,
But now I’m remembering, now wide awake,
I should take a towel and my swimmers forgotten.
Need some more money; there’s never enough.
Won’t worry right now cos I’m trying to sleep.
Will the taxi come early? Or late?
We’ll need to have breakfast
And time to wash up.
The sheets are all ruffled,
The doonah too heavy,
It’s no wonder I’m restless
Yet bordering on sleep.
BUT I CAN’T !
I can’t . . . I can’t . . .
The clock . . . says . . . three . . .
Three . . . I forgot . . . forget . . .
For . . . ever . . . and . . . ever . . .
Aa . . .m . . .en . . .
Colin
“Mum, Mum, wait till you see this!”
The girl was hard to see in the darkness: a vague silhouette, slithering over
piles of rotting rubbish, fruit, vegetables and other unsold and out-of-date
foodstuff. Behind the shopping centre a yard was enclosed by a brick wall,
high, but not high enough to stop determined scavengers bunking up and over
to look for anything which might fill an empty belly.
Lily was always hungry. There never seemed to be enough money for food.
What did Mum do with it, she wondered. Smokes? Drink? Pokies? She could
not be sure but they both did this nightly round of the grocery chuck outs.
Her hands slipped over more rotten fruit: bananas oozing from split skins;
apples, some still firm, most slimy and not worth a second touch, oranges
covered in films of mould; mushy plums, apricots, grapes getting pongy,
squashed tomatoes: a jumble of stale bread rolls, cream buns, tacky glazed
icing, crumpets, doughy muffins, smashed cream cakes. Lily’s fingers dipped
in and out of her mouth: the taste was good but it was too dark to see what
she was eating.
A rat scurried away.
Her hand fingered inside a fibre carton: packets of something unopened,
several of them. She pulled one out in front of her face. “Hey Mum, come
over,” a loud but muffled whisper, “wait till you see what I got.”
Her mother, a formless shadow slid around the jumbled garbage. “What is it
then? What yer got?”
“Doughnuts, packets of ’em. They’re in boxes like this. I seen ’em in the shop.
Cor. I love doughnuts.”
“OK, put ’em in the bag. We’d better be orf ’fore security comes round.”
“I got a few rolls as well.”
“OK, that’ll do us dinner. Come on.”
“Mum, how come all this food don’t get sold in the shops?”
“Dunno luv. Waste, ain’t it.
ColinW
Is this an apple which I see before me?
Come, let me behold thee.
’Tis shapen like an apple red
yet hath these shining russet yellow streaks all round.
’Tis small, yet light upon my hand,
with tiny broken stalk upon its upward face.
’Tis like a cherry – larger – yet not so sweet;
with juice, ’tis crisp and crunchy to the bite,
a taste like fallen honey drops,
sharp to my teeth, sweet to my tongue,
rapture to my nose, with flavour rich and joyful;
and cheerful sound unto my ears.
This gentle longing to have thee whole,
at once, as favourite love-bites on my lips.
Oh, wondrous fruit, how blest thou art.
Thy skin, though firm doth still resist my ardent bite
yet longeth to be with me – as any lover might –
to satisfy my hungry need.
I love thee still,
thy inner flesh so firm, so white,
so pure within and true.
I love thee, all of thee.
Resist me not, my love is sure
And will be till I’ve eaten all of you!
Colin
"Mum, Mum, wait till you see this!"
The girl was hard to see in the darkness: a vague silhouette, slithering over piles of rotting rubbish, fruit, vegetables and other unsold and out-of-date foodstuff. Behind the shopping centre a yard was enclosed by a brick wall, high, but not high enough to stop determined scavengers bunking up and over to look for anything which might fill an empty belly.
Lily was always hungry. There never seemed to be enough money for food. What did Mum do with it, she wondered. Smokes? Drink? Pokies? She could not be sure but they both did this nightly round of the grocery chuck-outs.
Her hands slipped over more rotten fruit: bananas oozing from split skins; apples, some still firm, most slimy and not worth a second touch, oranges covered in films of mould; mushy plums, apricots, grapes getting pongy, squashed tomatoes: a jumble of stale bread rolls, cream buns, tacky glazed icing, crumpets, doughy muffins, smashed cream cakes. Lily's fingers dipped in and out of her mouth: the taste was good but it was too dark to see what she was eating.
A rat scurried away.
Her hand fingered inside a fibre carton: packets of something unopened, several of them. She pulled one out in front of her face. "Hey Mum, come over," a loud but muffled whisper, "wait till you see what I got."
Her mother, a formless shadow slid around the jumbled garbage. "What is it then? What yer got?"
"Doughnuts, packets of 'em. They're in boxes like this. I seen 'em in the shop. Cor. I love doughnuts."
"OK, put 'em in the bag. We'd better be orf 'fore security comes round."
"I got a few rolls as well."
"OK, that'll do us dinner. Come on."
"Mum, how come all this food don't get sold in the shops?"
"Dunno luv. Waste, ain't it.
This child sleeping in the nightThe scene is set, the stage is lit, the actors ready; the baby boy is real, quiet and still. The music plays, the angels sing, the cameras roll. Do you see what I see?Mary tries really hard not to drop her new baby. But he's getting heavy and he's quite big. Standing next to her, Joseph puts a strong arm around her shoulder. They smile at the little one. But Mary's arms are aching; she tightens her grip around him but she's not tried to cuddle a baby before. She's only twelve. Maybe she's not holding him quite right. Perhaps, if she'd been sitting down instead of standing . . . The angels are still singing. How long will it be? She can't hold him much longer. It's no good. She leans forward and drops him down - hard - in the cradle. She bends her face close. Will he be all right? He's not crying. No, he's fine. Enter wise and noble strangers from the East. They kneel with their gifts. Do you know what I know? A child shivers in the cold.
|
She was a remarkable character: odd in lots of ways. We met her on holiday, not just casually; no, she spent two weeks with us as we travelled by bus to central Australia. Every day we said, "Hallo Rosie. How are you today?" Every evening we had dinner together at our motel.
Rosie told us she'd been sterilised when she was 24; surprisingly young we thought. She'd also had a brain operation and had had to learn to speak again. Had this influenced the person she'd become?
Rosie was a good name. She always wore something that colour, even her sunglasses were a shade of pink. We knew from our lunch together on the first day that she was not quite normal. She talked non-stop about all the trips she'd done all over the world. It seemed as if she must always be away from home. And then she told us that her husband liked her to travel. It didn't take long for us to understand why! Halfway through the meal she excused herself and went to the ladies' room. When she returned she explained that some of her lunch had got trapped in her teeth and since they were false she needed to take them out! We wondered why she needed to tell us this so early on our journey together.
As the days passed we came to realise what a strange adult Rosie was. As a mature woman in her 60s she behaved like a child. She always had to be first off the bus even if she was sitting at the back and since coach tours operate rotational seats she was seldom at the front. She was halfway down the aisle before the bus stopped. Like a child she loved ice creams, frequently stopping to buy one; her favourite words seemed to be "Oh, lovely".
She was a passionate photographer, well taking lots of pictures anyway. When we stopped at a scenic spot Rosie's camera went into overdrive. Not only did she take pictures at ten metre intervals as we walked, she bailed us up demanding that we take her picture against the backdrop. As the trip progressed everyone did their best to avoid being near her.
At dinner one evening Rosie arrived last. She decided not to sit at the only place left. She demanded that our driver, Ron, move. He was gracious enough to do so.
Rosie had agreed to share a room with another passenger. Of course, they'd never met before. The much older woman told us how eccentric Rosie was: she wore a wig which she carefully removed; she then stripped off and walked around in the nude and later slept that way.
My lasting memory of Rosie is of the visit we made to the grave of Albert Namatjira. For most of us a respectful moment was required. Not for Rosie: she wanted not one but two photos of the headstone and then requested that someone take a picture of her standing beside it.
Rosie was strange, but she was memorable.
July 2011
Now, about those horses.
Was Green Moon really a dark horse or did I just back the wrong horse when I put my shirt on the favourite which came, well . . . it didn't really, did it? After all, I got my advice straight from the horse's mouth - yours - and it's all very well to complain about locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. It's too late. I've lost my money, haven't I? So it's no good you flogging your dead horse about how good he was supposed to be. And stop whinging about "horses for courses" just because the rain made the track so wet. I could just as well say to you: 'Now, hold your horses'. I mean I was up there in the grandstand yelling: 'Home James, don't spare the horse'. You can get on your high horse as much as you like telling me how the grey mare was the better horse. It still didn't win! I might have done just as well backing a hobby horse or the wooden horse of Troy. lt was not Maluckyday. Hobson's choice would probably have given me a better result - the one nearest the rail! Or Pegasus, he would probably have flown in. I guess he would have had some horsepower. Pity he wasn't running. Gee - next year I'll back Phar Lap. At the very least I'll be able to say the horse was a winner!
Of course, I did try to get some writing done this week.
I started early on Tuesday morning, turned on my computer - at least that's what I intended - only to discover the power was off. Won't be long I said and started scribbling a few notes. Well nothing had returned a couple of hours later. And then the phone rang! Bad news. My sister-in-law somewhat distraught, sobbing into the phone that my brother was really sick and might even die and wanted to see me. Soon. Like NOW! That was all very well and I needed to go but he lives in South Australia. So the rest of the day was absorbed booking an airfare for Wednesday. Expensive at short notice, of course, but direct to Adelaide. And packing a bag for a few days - or longer, perhaps.
The flight on Wednesday morning arrived in Adelaide about
1 pm. But Pete doesn't live in Adelaide. He's in Port Augusta another 300 km north. Well actually he's not even in Port Augusta, he lives outback near Quorn another 30 odd km. Next task: car hire, luckily from the airport. By the time I got to Pete's place it was 6pm, time for dinner.
"He's hanging on," said a tearful Sally. "He'll be pleased you've come."
Next day, Thursday, Pete was barely conscious. Sally said, "Look Col hope you don't mind but we're going to need a priest quite soon and his wife says he's out of town and she can't raise him but thinks he's in Hawker doing his pastoral duties. Would you mind going up and tracking him down. Oh and if it's not too much trouble we need some shopping as you come back." She gave me a list.
So I got into the car again and set off for Hawker about 60 km to the north. It should not have taken long but things happen don't they? About ten km along the track, a bushy part of the Flinders Ranges, a huge roo comes bolting out of the scrub, no stopping, straight into the car. Panic! Emergency braking. Bang! I slithered off the track and into the bushes. Have you ever been hit by a kangaroo? The damage was significant: smashed front wing and wheel looking very dodgy. I stood disconsolately by the side of the road. No one in sight and not for another hour. The lift into Hawker was a slow truck ride. So by lunch time I started the search for the vicar and eventually found him. He was staying overnight but would give me a lift back on Friday. I booked into the hotel.
I woke early on Friday to the smell of smoke. From the window I could see that a bush fire was circling the area. The few locals were already organising hoses and pumps. The pub was in imminent danger.
I had to help. That's a long story in itself but it took us all day to save the pub and the houses nearby. I was pretty whacked by sunset as we watched smoke still drifting in the distance. Another night in the pub.
On Saturday, discovered the vicar had left on Friday evening so I hitched a ride back to Quorn arriving mid-morning. A tearful Sally met me at the door. Pete had died on Friday afternoon and she'd arranged the funeral for two p.m. The vicar was back in town but couldn't do it on Monday. So you know what I was doing on Saturday afternoon. It was all very sad and I felt I hadn't been there when I wanted to be.
Come Sunday morning I had to ring the car hire firm and explain why I'd left their damaged vehicle on the side of a country road 350 km from where I'd hired it. I decided it would be safer and quicker to take a bus back to Adelaide. Needless to say I missed the only direct flight to Hobart and had to go via Melbourne arriving in time for the last Virgin flight which got in last evening at 9.15. So by the time I got home tired, sad and a bit dishevelled it was working towards 11 pm.
I still haven't done any writing but I've got enough ideas for a raft of short stories.
I wake from slumbers: dreamscapes, warmth.
It is silent.
Almost.
Darkness absorbs me with soft gentleness;
I feel its surrounding blackness:
it is near, but distant;
warm, yet cold;
strong, but weak;
strange, but familiar.
The Silence whispers, uncertainly;
soft breaths beside me;
quiet hums from the kitchen.
I wait, listening
and then, stealthily, as a cat in the blackness, comes the Rain
pattering softly,
tapping loudly,
strumming insistently
as the giant sweeps in from the sea
brutally beating the weatherboards,
hammering the house;
fierce, frightening and furious;
torrents of water descend;
a deafening deluge,
gurgling in gutters,
echoing in downpipes,
overflowing the eaves.
The darkness continues
but Silence hurriedly disappears.
The snake slithers gracefully downhill, its sinuous tail curling through countless hairpin bends; its increasing speed exhilarating the freewheeling, braking, pedalling riders.
Each one determined and passionate, their faces etched with excitement; then agony, sinews strained, dripping sweat; aching muscles, bodies pained, hour upon hour; up,up, up; down and down again, to the limits of man and machine.
A maze of passing colour: multicoloured flashes; blues, reds, oranges, whites and blacks; one yellow.
Endurance: rain soaking, wind beating, clouds descending, visibility poor, slippery surfaces.
Sidelined body of humankind: yelling, encouraging, running, verging too close, partisan, irritating, annoying.
Errors of judgement: collision; accident; disaster; jumble of bikes, bodies, hard road, broken spokes, blood, agony and curses; anger, frustration, delay; end of a dream; new bike, up, supporting push, away.
Time, distance: How long? How far? How fast?
Panoply of drama: mayhem, mystery, magic, excitement, amazement.
Race to the finish: utter exhaustion.
Arrival.
Triumph.
Le Tour est finis.
