I hear him at night standing at my window.
He is listening at the window,
At my sleeping.
Sometimes I saw in my sleep
And sometimes I yawn.
I can hear him walking up to the house
And hope he is harmless.
He's been doing it ever since I moved here.
I've learned to sleep through his visits.
So far he's visits have been harmless
But if one day he has enough of listening to me sleeping,
And what if he is wanting to come in
And wanting more?

Working later than usual, Jane Woods stood outside the Spencer's Real estate Offices; she had enjoyed a good day selling property, even though it was Friday the 13th. It had been a long day, but Jane was well satisfied. While she was writing up the documentation for the sale of the properties she had sold, she had not realized how late it was. It was a bleak windy night and looked as if it were about to rain and from past experience she knew there would be a delay for taxis to come to the office.

Jane decided to cut through an alley-way which would take near the taxi rank. Many office workers used the backstreet instead of walking the long way around to get to the bus station. There would be plenty of light on the main road once she reached the taxi rank.

Halfway down the alley she wondered whether she had done a foolish thing. Not long ago a young woman was attacked while walking in this area. Jane decided it was too late to turn back and go the long one around.

Just then, she heard what she thought was someone walking behind her. They seem to be rattling be on is of the old things that ran along one side of the street. Jane turned, but couldn't see anyone as it had become quite dark. Walking quickly along the side alley; the sound of the rattle began again. Jane did not stop and turn around as she was terrified that whoever it was, would soon catch up to her.

Then she spotted a man and woman standing in a gate further along the alley. Thinking she would be safe, Jane was about to say something to them, when the male turned toward her drunkenly saying "Would you like to make a threesome!"
Jane replied, "No thank you," and hurried along with street.

Up ahead, Jane could see the streetlights but the rattle of the iron railings seem to be coming closer and closer. Jane realize she had no other means to defend itself. Fumbling in a handbag, she found her keys and thought she might be I want to poke the person in the eye, or hurt the person's arm. This was one of the ways her self-defence teacher had suggested if you had no other means of protection. Jane thought of all things she would do if a person caught up with to her. She would kick, scratch, and even bite to person.

The alley in which he was walking cover the whole block of shops as you feel is so becoming tired, due to the fear and stress. Jane could see a taxi up on the main road. She kept repeating to herself, "Please, please don't go, I'm nearly there."

Finally, Jane breathing hard, reached the end of the alley and raced over to the taxi. The driver asked her where she wanted to go and after giving her address, Jane sank back into the seat. Perspiring from all the running and being terrified, Jane turned down the window.

She heard the rattle of the old railings, and then to see new would come at of the alley. At first, she couldn't see anyone, however the rattle continued. It was then she saw him. It was none other than a dog with a stick in its mouth marking out his territory. Laughing with tears in her eyes, Jane thought it was a lucky Friday the 13th for her, but unlucky for others.

She watched the wide cool Derwent as it flowed
through fields of hops, rows of apple trees,
moving deeply between banks of rushes and verdant edges.
Black swans here and there on the surface and below
fresh water trout for the taking – a watercolour setting,
gentle and ordered to the eye, more British than Australian.
Mature in years, this scene is soothing to her eyes, to her nerves.
This Island state provides solace to her soul.

How strange when once it was a prison, a jarring punishment
for those who came under sail. This Island was ancient when they came,
peopled by a proud race who were nearly destroyed. Now Tasmania
Is mature in years, and her people proud of their recent and ancient past.

She thinks of other rivers she has known – the Ross and the Fitzroy,
both proud, wide rivers, flushed by the Queensland Wet each year,
running brown, over their banks, both close to home, warm water
with the odd crocodile lurking. She had loved them too,
but in a different way, more in awe of their power and unpredictability.

She turns, again looking at the clear depths of the Derwent,
and thinks how good it has been to know these rivers so varied,
and to have felt very much "as one" with each of them.

© fmcFrances Coll 26-08-2008

Why trim a gum tree?
They are meant to grow as they will
their trunks rising high from the ground
before they branch - safer for bushfires.
Their limbs spread at all angles
unlike their European cousins
more orderly by nature
and pruned each year.
They grow wide as well as high
hard to place in a planned landscape.

If you find a large gum in your garden
What’s to be done? Leave it if you can.
But gardens come with houses, power lines:
“That gum must be trimmed” the edict comes
“Right now. Strong winds will blow,
the whole street will be blacked out,
Trim it now!”

Next day sees the Senior clinging to his ladder
saw in hand. The first cut is made,
then the lower cut, the first limb falls
with a dull thud – a good start.
But a higher limb must go –too close
to the lines. The ladder is not high enough,
Is a bit unsteady – “Come hold the ladder,
I don’t want to fall!” And so it goes,
In time the job is done, no broken bones,
the tree looks good, the eucalypt is trimmed.

It is the last gum in the street:
It deserves to be saved.

© fmcFrances Coll 6-10-08

There were seven of us grandchildren, and another three, but they live too far away to come often. My grandfather was always so very pleased to see us. His house was in the middle of the forest, a few miles from a small town called Mierlo. Grandfather was a tall man, he always wore a hat, as he was bald and he thought maybe we had not noticed him being bald, as he was wearing his hat also inside the house.

In the morning he came down and did his moustache. He had these long moustaches, that reached way past his mouth. Every morning he lovingly curled the ends over with a pair of hot plyers, which he heated on the wood stove. You could hear his moustaches crackle by the heat.

We loved him, he seemed a happy man and laughed a lot. He took us for walks, and told us stories. One of his stories was in the war time; how he went swimming in the river. As he looked down in the water he saw these German soldiers lying on the bottom of the river.. There were four of them and they had their eyes open.

Years later, we found out he couldn't even swim.

At night time, as we kids were noisy waiting for our food, grandfather would sit in his easy chair and play his recorder, loud and tunelessly. I think he did that so he wouldn't hear our noise.

In the mornings he'd take us to the local tip in the sand dunes, and we all searched for things he could use, such as old cans, cups, vases, and old lightbulbs. I think he could use anything, really.

In the afternoon, he'd sit at his little table in the sun and work with a sand and concrete mixture covering, with endless care, an old bottle with the mixture, and producing a piece of Art, with a rose on the one side and the head of a small devil on the other. Underneath, he'd write a few words of Latin and the date, 15 BC. He had a whole garage with these masterpieces.

Once a week he went to the pub and sold his bottle to anyone who'd have it, for five dollars. His bottles went like hotcakes.

I never throw anything away!
What? Never?
Well, hardly ever!

Kitchen cupboards hoard jars of jams and jelly and ginger and the pantry stores packets of palatable pleasures, and baked beans, bully beef and Bovril.

It sounds wonderful, except that these items are all beyond their "use by" date, way beyond, way way beyond, like 10 years or more. Why didn't I eat them? Well, I always intended eating them, of course, sometime, like tomorrow, or in a day or two, whenever; but one of those days, in the not-too-distant future, after I had finished off the leftovers in the fridge.

Somehow, though, I just never got around to dishing up those delightful delicacies. Time caught up and left them and me behind. Now, when I read the names on some of those long-abandoned or superseded products they bring back memories. I never had the heart to throw them out.

But that is all going to change. At last, I am going to get rid of them. In fact, I intend doing so as soon as I can find a spare moment, like tomorrow, or in a day or two, whenever; but one of these days, in the not-too-distant future, they're gonna go!

Be quiet for your Granny small person
While I Velcro you Huggies on tight,
Your Mum needs to pay off the bankcard
So she’s working real late tonight.

So drink up your Ritalin small person
With me there is nothing to fear
Your Dad’s coming home in his Hummer
With a Blue Tooth stuck in his ear.

I’ve defrosted a small person’s dinner
I’ll microwave it very soon
Feed you from melamine dishes
With a plastic disposable spoon.

So be quiet for your Granny small person
Chill out, as you watch DVDs
I’ll buy you an I-pod tomorrow
You can download whatever you please.

In one of those museum shops you have to pass through before leaving the place, I found a fridge magnet that portrayed the Brown family Coat of Arms. I had to buy two, one for us and one for our son, as a joke souvenir. With a name like Brown you do not overly concern yourself about your presumed ancestors unlike many people with less popular identifiers. I have always been lightly amused by the antics of the amateur genealogist, and suspect of the professional. DNA studies in some of the less salubrious parts of a few English cities have shown that 20% of the kids are calling the wrong guy Daddy. The same percentage has been demonstrated in the Broker Belt of the Home Counties. Just goes to show that all men are randy and “The colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady, are sisters under the skin.”

Then there is the oft repeated case you can see when trooping through many of the stately homes. The walls of the Long Gallery are festooned with oil paintings of the tenant’s ancestors, most of whom are no oil paintings. “This” says the guide “is the fifth Duke and his family. He married her when he was 56 and she was 16, and they had 7 children.” Oh Yeah? They probably had one, maybe two, but the rest were more likely to have been sired by the third footman, the second groom, or some other young buck more appealing than the smelly old sod Her Grace was shackled to. It was also equally likely that His Grace was out ensuring the perpetuation of his genes with pulchritudinous peasants.

Getting back to the fridge magnet. The accompanying flyer gave a brief history of that particular, and probably unrelated, tribe of Browns. It appeared the first member of this lot in Britain was one of the Norman thugs that came over with William the Bastard---that was one of his titles--- and took over subjugating the serfs from the previous bunch of thugs in Harold’s mob. They continued the tradition down the generations, slightly changing the methods of control from outright bullying to more subtle brainwashing; that is instilling into all from their earliest years that “Some are noble, some may become noble, and the rest have nobility sitting on top of them”. As the majority of the population could not read, lurid, showy badges were created so that these medieval Mafiosi could be recognised by the lesser beings.

So now I have one of those badges, and it is not much to write about. Three fleurs-de-lis on a blue background. Why? They weren’t Frogs; they were Bloody Normans, in the full meaning of the word. If I had to design a coat of arms for my tribe today I think I could do a whole lot better. First I would choose a symbol of the fecundity and proliferation of our clan. A rabbit? Don’t think so. Got to be something that breeds well, is a survivor and widely distributed. I think the fox would be appropriate. Been persecuted for centuries, but is well entrenched. Nice looking and eats just about anything. Smart. Just like me. So a fox is the choice. I can see the emblazoned shield in my imagination. A brown fox with its hind leg raised anointing a crown. And the motto? “Attain Turgidity”. Work it out for yourself.

According to those less fortunate souls who reside on the big, flat, hot island to our North, Tasmania is a cold, bleak place, inhabited by strange types. We don’t bother to correct them. It would take too long. Besides, if they knew the truth, the place would be overrun. So don’t let on, will you? Sure it gets a bit cool in the winter in the high country. Even get some snow on the mountains if we are lucky. Lower down we get frosts, but they usually clear a couple of hours after sunrise. All country kids have memories of trooping of to school beside white coated, tree lined paddocks under a blue sky with a couple of clouds in it. Nothin’ prettier, believe me.

Sometimes on these cool days the kids would find a goanna lying still and stiff by the track. Caught in the open overnight, the poor beggar had got frozen stiff. Not dead you understand. They are cold blooded, and when the temperature drops to zero they ice up. Left alone in the rising heat of the day, they thaw out, warm up and wander off. But kids are interfering little sods and being kids they poke it and pick it up. If they were still close to home they might run back and load the lizard into the oven of the perpetually warm fuel stove in the kitchen. They’d reckon they were saving its life or something If not, they would more likely take it on to school and put it in somebody’s desk. More than one town bred teacher has had an interesting start to the day when they opened a desk drawer and met an annoyed Blue Tongue.

The farm up the road from our place was a nice little dairy farm run by a mum and dad and their three kids. The two youngest were still at school, and walked the two mile there each morning and back at night. The eldest was about 17 and had finished school. She was helping out at home till she took off for the city to be a nurse or typist or shop girl. She was a real country girl, pretty and nice with it. So when her brother came barging through the kitchen door with a frigid, foot long goanna in his hand, she calmly accepted the fact that he was carrying on the old tradition of thawing lizards. Once he was gone she carried on with her housekeeping jobs, sweeping, dusting, washing, and so on. Mum and dad had gone to the sales and were due back for lunch. Then there was a knock on the front door. Had to be a stranger, all the locals came round the back. In the porch was a travelling salesman. Used to be a lot of them back then. He was nicely surprised to be greeted by a good looking girl at the door, and just about the time for morning tea. He must have thought his luck was right in. He started his line of chat, and she was happy to have a new face around. She was wondering if it would be a good idea of inviting him in for a cuppa, when she suddenly remembered. “Excuse me, I have a goanna in the oven” and she darted back to the kitchen. Removing the unroasted reptile, and dropping it into a box, she returned to the front door. 50 yards away, the travelling rep was hastily climbing into his car. Must have been something she said.

Our factory canteen was popular with the workers as it provided adequate meals for a fair price. The food was plain, not always well cooked, often not very hot, but always ample servings. You could get a three course meal and a cuppa for a few shillings. When you were earning less than ten quid a week, that was important. As long as you did not get poisoned, you would put up with one star cuisine if you could save some cash. Normally there was a choice of two hot meals and in the summer, a salad was on offer. Soup made from yesterday’s left-over vegetables was ladled out into thick white china bowls, and tea or coffee served up in bullet proof china mugs. Usually there were a couple of sweets available, tinned fruit or pie with ice cream was most common. As the place had to serve about 200 of the staff in pretty quick time, there was a double queue system from each end of the counter. These met at the till where the canteen manager took your money and handed out change. She was big girl and miserable with it, but scrupulously careful with the pennies. However from her position she could keep one eye on the customers and one on the staff behind the counter. She even had a partial view of the kitchen through two hatches. She was a busy girl and had no time for chat or enquiry.

The day of the mystery was like most others. I had wandered over to the canteen for lunch as usual and joined the queue on the right. In front of me one of the electricians loaded a salad onto his tray, then a dish of apple pie, a mug of tea and shuffled forward towards the till. On the counter near the till was a white pint jug containing a white substance. The electrician picked up the jug, sniffed it and poured a measure over his apple pie. Ah! The mysterious fluid was custard. Certainly not cream. We moved forward and in turn paid our money and moved to an available seat. The tables in the canteen accommodated ten patrons, four on the long sides and a single seat at each end. The electrician sat at the end of a table close to the till. I joined him, sitting on one of the middle chair between two of the office boys. This seat was facing the till and the two queues, so I could see each person as they came up with their choices. I noticed one bloke, who, as he came abreast of the aforementioned jug, like the abovementioned electrician, picked it up and sniffed the contents. He also had a salad and apple pie. He poured a drizzle over his salad, obviously thinking the liquid contents to be dressing. Oh oh! This could be fun, though I. He duly paid the lady and came to our table, sitting in the single chair at the opposite end to the electrician. I continued to eat, but at the same time I slowly swung my view back and forth between the two as they forked the comestibles into their mouths. The latecomer was chomping through his salad with no sign of distress, so I assumed the mystery material was indeed salad dressing. I waited gleefully for the electrician to take the first spoonful of apple pie and mayonnaise. He finished his last piece of lettuce, pushed the plate to one side, pulled the sweet dish to his front and plunged in the spoon. Up went the spoon, filled with apple, pie crust and dripping whitely. Into the open mouth and then the chomp down. I held my breath, waiting, expecting at least a splutter, perhaps a grimace, but hopefully an explosive reaction. Nothing. Not the least flicker of an eyelid. No emotion displayed at all. He just kept right on eating. And I still don’t know what was in that damn jug.