Balloons

It is dusk
And I drive home.
I see pink balloons,
Floating in the dim light,
Over the grassy park,
Onto the road.
They represented
Women,
Who all were victims.
Who all battled.
Some won,
Some lost,
All fought,
Breast cancer.
A friend,
Fights now.
No one can tell us,
If she will win.
It has been so long,
And the cancer,
Is no longer,
What it was once named.
Now her treatment,
Maintains a standoff.
My own mother,
Too was called,
To the front line.
She won,
But only through,
Radical mastectomy.
But now I live,
In uneasy,
Silent fear,
Of my own body.
That something,
That partly defines my gender,
Gives pleasure and shape,
Nurtures a child,
Can change,
To an enemy.
Another,
Asked my mum,
How she could lose,
Something that made her a woman.
She said it was easy,
It was going to kill her.
I think,
I would choose the same.
So I wear,
A pink ribbon,
For the hundreds,
Thousands,
Tens of thousands,
Of women.
To remind
And remember.

Dreams

At night
I travel
to places
in my mind.
There are whole cities
bridges, roads.
I know it is the same place
why do I return?
It is never the same story,
just aspects
of the same location.
Sometimes I need to walk
too far,
but if I drop to crawl
I am far faster
and it seems effortless.
Sometimes giant waves
crash over me
but I can breathe
there is fear
but never terror.
This place
is populated,
by a mix
of people I know,
have known
and do not know.
Some I have seen,
some are strangers.
If I dream of someone.
do they dream of me?
Is that the feeling
that someone
has crossed your grave?
When you are appearing
in the dreams
of another?
Why are they there?
These tales
made only for me.
Are they merely
my mind
sorting through
the days memories?
Are they signs
I should heed,
if only I could
decipher them?
Are they glimpses
of a future
that one day
I will live
only to think
"I dreamt that" ?
All I can say
is that I enjoy
the private show.

Night

Sharp outlines
begin to blur
as shadows lengthen.
Colours lose their lustre,
tone,
and finally become
shades of grey.
Sounds soften
birdsong ceases
to be replaced
by the nocturnal chorus.
The breeze
gently rusles leaves
and feathers
fluffed for warmth.
Sound travels further
unencumbered
by the unseen obstacles
of the days atmosphere.
Secrets hidden
for the time
though other
mysteries
become more pronounced.
There is a book
"Tom's Midnight Garden"
which I loved
The night fascinates
it holds no fear for me.
I feel blessed that way.
It envelops
and its cool calmness
smooths over
the frenetic activity
of the day.
It is a time to mellow
to relfect
and to dream.

Rain

our rain frog
small
brown
unobtusive
finds his voice
storm birds
fly
calling
ants
scuttle for
higher ground
or take flight
upon delicate wings
a grey curtain
reaching
across the horizon
obscuring the hills
and trees
as it advances
the soil
releases it's aroma
leaves rustle
in the breeze
rushing into
the coming
precipitation
a coolness descends
defeating the
heat of the day
a sunburnt country
waits,
it's thirst
unquenshed
through
endless summer days
and it begins
a staccato rhythm
upon the roofing iron
a magpie
sits beneath the eaves
on a railing
warbling to itself
nature heralds the rain

Lessons

Some things
recently
have made me
recall the past.
Not events of mine
but of others.
All
centering around
loss.
My mind is filled
with the ghosts
of people I have known.
Some have left
to dwell in a realm
of endlessness,
but others
are still living.
Just not
part of my life
anymore.
In my memory
they are
as I left them.
Many are children
trapped
in an endless season
of my recollection.
School mates
friends.
Never growing older
now only
fleeting moments.
Images and connections.
One girl
was Dawn,
she loved
the Bay City Rollers
and swallowed a marble.
That is all
I remember,
but still
she is there.
Along with so many others,
walks home
games played
shy kisses
silly fights
laughter
tears
it's all there
sweetened by time.
Could I go back?
Would I want to?
No
let the children
play in the land
of my memeories.

I have always remembered
a poem
from a headstone
in a military cemetary
I saw
many years ago

"To live on
in the hearts
of those we leave behind
is not to die"

but I think
it not only refers to
the dead,
but also
to the years of our lives
we have left behind.
They never really die
they remain
to teach us
what to repeat
and what to avoid
But do we learn ?

Manna

Why is it
People say
It is so hard
To make bread ?
I make bread quite often
Not always
But I have
Just now.
It is mixed
And left to rise.
Then it will be shaped
And baked.
It is a link
To a past,
A past that was slower
Though at the same time
More immediate
More connected perhaps.
Cooking
Is my passion
Some create with words
Some with music
Some with paint or clay
I create with ingredients
But it still requires
Thought,
Time,
And care.
It doesn’t last,
But it fills a need
In me,
And those who enjoy
The fruits
Of my labour.
I remember climbing
To a sacred site
And as I placed my hand
On a cleft in the rock
Worn smooth
And polished
By the hands of those
Thousands of years
Before me
I felt connected
To a past.
The same way
I feel
When I place my hands
In warm dough
Connected
To millions of women
Before me
Who cared and worked
To provide
Sustenance
To loved ones