Just Before Sunset

Sun burning gold

bounces and rolls

over the tree-tops
alongside the road.

The car draws ahead

but around the next bend

the dancing blaze 

is keeping pace.

Loud

It doesn't stop rumbling, the thunder, after starting with a huge 'Boom!' 

'What a beautiful day!' we said earlier, and then, 'How hot!'

I open the doors to let in the cool. A little spittle of rain flies right through the flywire onto my leg. The noise gets hugely louder and the house shakes. (Surely I imagined that?) Now the rain pelts down hard, and I hear the cracks that mean lightning. The cats are curled up, one in each doorway. They like to watch storms.

It gets louder yet. Then there's the hugest crack I've heard in years. We all jump, and the cats swap doors. I switch off the wireless modem and unplug the landline phone. 

More, yet more, again and again. I've still got power. I bet some people haven't.

Then, as suddenly, it's quiet. The rain stops in an instant, except for the sound of heavy drips from roofs and branches. The humidity returns.

Suddenly Summer

We have Summer at last, for one day - one day of clear blue, deep blue sky; enough warmth for me to wear a sarong; the slightest breeze rippling the ferns just a little, behind the flight of a white butterfly. The drone of a mower somewhere is too faint to disturb; it makes a pleasant, bee-like hum. The fern fronds are softest green. I nod off in the noonday heat, which increases. I think of beaches and rivers and backyard pools, of immersing myself in lovely water. But I think lazily - sitting here, peaceful, in my sweet green garden.

  Submitted for dVerse: It's not easy being green and poetic - or is it?.

Small Sunshine

Small sunshine

in between days of rain.

Everything smells stronger —

both rotting things

and growing things.

Sodden

Bleak, bedraggled,

my garden misses me.

Ceaseless rain 

strands me indoors.


Submitted for dVerse Poetics: Short verse

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.)