Joining the river of stones challenge for January 2012
Old TV left out on the kerb bears a rain-soaked, handwritten sign, barely decipherable that reads 'Still Works'.
While walking the dog, I ponder my clumsy feet that trip and stumble in the tangled dance of life. I never seem to learn the steps.
at her feet.
Two park benches either side of the path, pedestals for two chubby sentinels- magpies, beaks tilted, carolling their lazy day song.
The shredded leaves of feral bamboo interrupt the native bush, leaning on their water-laden yellow stalks to tickle passing cars .
I hear each drop
of rain upon the roof
and recall when Time
was a pedal car
not a bullet train.
Who took a fluorescent pen to the morning sky? A bright contrail stretches from west to east, illuminated by the dawning sun.
Three corellas sidling along the wire above. When my dog barks at them, one breaks off a leafy twig and leans to watch it drop onto us.
Laid out on this cool sandstone slab, I hear only the wind above, the urgency of cicadas and the distant calls of children and crows.
My life before my eyes
laid out in rows
of coloured spines.
All the books I own.
A jet of water on the still warm garden and I am suddenly bathed in the moist aroma of mint, lemon basil and rose geranium.
Corellas call. I scan the sky. Large white birds are scattered atop every pole, tree and building - playing, tousling and chasing.
A cicada, no longer than my thumbnail, prefers to cling to my red t-shirt, rather than explore its fleeting vegetative world.
The brightest star.
of peaceful fortitude
from its milky
The trees seem menacing. Their spongy, beckoning limbs and twisted trunks are darkened by the deluge in the night.
It was if a giant's corkscrew grip had wrenched and twisted the tree's trunk, its pink fruit fallen and fermenting at its feet.
Words on fire
peeking at Twitter
forgot about the stove.
a chai moon
like a marshmallow
in a cappucino sky.
I wake before the alarm, to the cooing of turtledoves, the brassy notes of a female cuckoo and the cooee of a distant male.
The magnitude of the vaulted sky, the magnificence of its sunset ceiling, blooming and erasing endlessly over the epochs.
Mist hangs in the morning air like smoke, rising with the sun, from the deluge-drenched earth.
The thunder rumbles
a beast lumbering closer
rattling the window glass
eyes flickering with fire.
Only her misty rings
The innocent wind teases
until they roar
an ocean tempest.
as her ice-blue eyes
knocks me off course
from this stranger.
A pointillist tableau
of yellow dots,
the suspended fragility
of dandelions hovering
over a verdant field.
stinging my seared skin.
I raise my arms in homage
to the southerly buster.
A honey-furred creature leapt into my lap to the shock of its minder, unaware the dog knew me and was glad to claim me as a friend.
The twig insect posed, one leg raised, only its minuscule eyes moving as it watched me carefully sweep below.
She felt strangely excited as she passed the pale green stones in the shop display, their surfaces soft and powdery.