Three Days of Easter

Last year I wrote three poems in haiku form for Easter, so thought I’d do something a little longer as I reflected on the days in Jesus’ life so central to the Christian message.

Friday

Friday dawned

sun cresting the hills

bathing the city

in golden light

Who could have known

this day would unfold

with unspeakable violence

Who could believe

such darkness could descend

the sun, the light of our lives

blotted out, taken from us

Who could have known

as this day began

it would reach its awful end

with such grief

shattered hopes

and utter despair

Autumn Equinox

Aaah, I can officially welcome my favourite season with open arms, not that I'm a fanatical purist, but I do like to wait until nature's calendar decrees the start of a new season before declaring it has really begun. The parched soil can ready itself to leave those baking temperatures behind and embrace the cooler months ahead as moisture returns, hopefully as deep as it needs to go in order for new life to be generated. It still feels far too warm to believe Autumn has arrived, but the poplars, which are always the first to let us know the cycle of seasons is once more marching on, are already tinged with yellow and shedding their first leaves. No matter what the temperature, their in-built clock says the time is right to begin shutting down as they lead the way for those who will follow with their vast array of colours. And with a full moon to light up the night sky I couldn't let the occasion pass without a little nod to this wonderful time of year.

I’ve succumbed to waxing lyrical

as my thoughts turn philosophical,

for I’m feeling rather wonderful

when everything is seasonal

and change is on the way

What seems quite unremarkable

by its very nature cyclical

heralds colour wholly magical

and invites us to be playful

in its bountiful display

For the full moon wholly spherical

making some go quite nonsensical

to me is boldly beautiful

altogether equinoxical

on this wondrous Autumn day

Soft Touch

It’s not unusual on any given day to find myself rescuing butterflies, as I have concluded their tiny brains simply do not have the capacity to conquer the intricacies of spatial relations. My back porch is a sun trap, with windows giving a view of the garden while also providing shelter from the wind, and it has become a favourite spot for butterflies, blowflies, wasps and dragonflies. Only problem is, the butterflies seem to have a dickens of a job working out how to exit the porch. The garden is there, right in front of them, they can see it through the glass, but rather than move the one metre it would take to head back where they came from, they will literally flap around aimlessly for hours until I put them out of their misery, cup them gently in my hand, and give them their freedom.

Spent a couple of hours on the couch reading a book when I caught sight of one in my peripheral vision. Thinking it was just passing the window I did a double-take when I realised it was inside, quite happy to peruse the lounge room and spend some time on the couch near my feet. However it came to be flutterbying inside I’ll never know, maybe it had learned a thing or two from the blowflies who hang around waiting for that split second when you open the screen door to slip in unawares. Whatever the case, I did the usual thing, scooped it up gently and headed out the back door.

Even when granted its freedom, it seemed reluctant to go. Walking up and down my hand, its touch barely noticeable, I thought it would be eager to take flight, but not so, content instead to wander round and round the palm of my hand. I had time to note its distinctive markings, and though just your common everyday garden variety butterfly, it sported a unique design worthy of any artist’s deft brushstrokes.

Finally walking to the tip of my finger, I thought take-off was imminent, but no. It turned back to face me, proboscis seeking out every morsel of salty sweat. Was it bidding me a final farewell? Of course not, but maybe somewhere in that minute butterfly brain it was aware I had saved it from what could have been a sad end, for it would have starved had it remained in the house for long.

Another ramble round my hand, the faintest tickle, then off it went, back home to tell of its dice with death and lucky escape.

Butterfly

walks my life line

past the Mount of Venus

strokes my heart line
with the softest touch

then takes flight

from my fingertip

Slowing Down

The weather on Tasmania’s west coast is often wet, wild and windy, but I managed to pull three fantastic days out of the hat for my mini-break during this week. With no intention of taking part in the tourist ventures Strahan is famous for, namely the Macquarie Harbour cruise and Abt Railway trip, I walk, read, write, take photos, collect rocks and leaves, and eat.

The process of a long walk is an interesting one. I start out just walking, intending to go from here to there, but partway in there is a shift from simply admiring the surroundings, the bigger picture, as smaller details catch my attention and cry out to be noticed. My eyes change their focus, my pace slows, and I stop. I enjoy the spectacle of a grand vista, a stunning view, but it’s the finer details that always fascinate me. Since I was a little tacker, the seemingly infinite varieties of moss, lichen and fungi have been a source of much delight, so to find a fungi wonderland on the Hogarth Falls track makes the whole trip particularly rewarding.

My amateur photographic attempts are rewarded with ducks mid-flight over the water, fungi I’ve never seen before, water dripping off feathery moss, lichen on gravestones which have been standing for a hundred and sixty years, clear tannin stained water, mirror images in the harbour so clear the waterline disappears, smooth pebbles with markings both bold and so fine I marvel at how they came to be.

The seabirds busy themselves near the water’s edge, the trails of their footprints crisscrossing the sand patterns on the beach lashed by the waters of the Southern Ocean. A massive lump of bull kelp, stem still intact, stretches out like the entrails of some marooned monster, twisted strands of dark chocolate brown rubber, with folds of translucent orange where it catches the sunlight. 

 The longer I wander, and wonder, the more I see. Not just because of time spent observing, but in focussing on what is directly in front of me, details stand out. Intricacies of texture, size, shape and colour delight the senses, highlighting the cycle of life of each organism, the importance of these little things which make up the whole, and the crucial link between them.

By slowing my pace, I don’t just look, I see. I don’t just hear, I listen.