My recent short holiday was back to Kangaroo Island to stay with my sister and brother and his partner in his comfy little holiday home on the beach. It is a truly pristine place.
On a good weather day, the ferry crossing takes about forty five minutes. I find it interesting to see that all passengers are dressed similarly – in comfortable, casual clothes, good walking shoes, some with back-packs. Those dressed most casually, as if having an at-home day, are, I would guess, locals. What a love for the island these people must have – to have decided that to pop over to the mainland once a fortnight or so by ferry, to do a substantial shop, is a price worth paying.
Being a responsible blogger with every intention of getting March’s post up in time, I wrote the above on the twenty eighth of March. However, I had a surprise visit from an old friend from far away, who joined us for our Easter camp in my hills country. We didn’t stop talking for days. So much to catch up on. And now, as I happily chew over all that happened, I realise I am mentally exhausted.
So, I have to tell you dear readers, that my head is just not in writing mode at the moment. But I’m sure it will be back in order very soon, and in the meantime, I will just put up this little old poem.
Deserted House
Years have passed
Is it ten
or maybe fifty
since unshod feet skipped lightly over my meandering paths
then stopped
to kick pebbles into childish dreams
Since laughter
arm in arm with freedom
was carried by zephyrs through my open windows
and swaying jonquils caressed my walls
when days were autumn
and living gentle
Is it ten
or maybe fifty
How long since
eucalyptus perfumed smoke
heaved heavily through my lofty chimneys
and billowed out bold to be swallowed
by low lingering clouds
How long since my old threshold flaunted hospitality
music
coffee
wine and music
in the rooms within
Too long I fear
My paths have grown over
The dreams have matured
grown threadbare and died
The wind now carries only sounds of ghostly weeping
through my cob-webbed window jambs
and reminiscent minds have fled the mournful tunes
Stern thorns replace the flaccid flowers
and scratch and scrape my tired walls
Too long
Too long
My hearth is cold
and sunlight’s breath lies naked at my door
I’m sorry for the shortness of this blog. Don’t go too far away because I will be back on track within a few days.
Warmly,
Sue
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