Morning Music

Sitting on my back veranda this morning
between light showers of rain
first I hear kookaburras
near but unseen
filling the air with joy, as they do
(in our perception). Then
after a pause, with only the small sounds
of raindrops and random twittering,
the high, sweet notes of a recorder
begin and continue, faint but clear.
I think it's the seven-year-old boy
who lives across the road.
He must be playing outdoors
on his own back veranda.

Wet Sunday

Wet Sunday:
white sky, rain-darkened ground.
Fresh sheets on the bed last night.
Feeding the cats their breakfast, I sneeze.
These are good enough reasons.

All morning
I lounge against piled-up pillows.
The cats settle next to me, cuddle up,
Then curl into their foetal position sleep-mode.
The three of us breathe gently.

Bikers

the wild men 
ride with lights on

this bright and sunny day

sturdy blokes

with thick white beards

their handlebars wide and high

Oh, it's Sunday!

Oh, it's Sunday! Lazy coffee, sunshine through the curtains, the cats fed and dozing nearby. There are brand-new poems to read on the web. There are library books waiting, piles of colour on my dining-room table. There's a new DVD to watch. There are friends to talk to by phone or email, at my leisure and at length. I look away from the ache in my heart. No, I am not lonely!

(Starting a new habit of small stones on Sundays rather than daily.)