Blues

A lonley woman stands pegging out her washing in the still morning cool.

She looks at the clear early morning blue of the cloudless sky, and is reminded of her mother's eyes, which were just the colour of this early morning clear paleish blue sky.

A wash of forlorn loneliness for her mother sweeps over the woman. Still, after thirteen long years, the sting, the ache, of missing her mother remains, as sharp and painful as ever.

She remembers the man who fell in love with her mother. He used to sing "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?" to her mother every time he saw her. It became a sort of joke and her friends and work colleagues teased her mother about the man. He had curly gold hair, and a wide smile, and bluer than Burmese-blue-sapphire eyes, which sparkled with joy, whenever he looked at her mother.

The woman remembered, that as a child, she had liked this man, whose simple adoration of her mother had seemed so kind and true, and just plain loving. She remembered thinking, that if her father could not be in her life, this man would be alright. He had none of the guile, or slyness some other men seemed to hold. She felt he would cherish and treasure her mother, in a way she deserved.

This man, who sang or whistled with joy around her mother, was a hardworking man. He had no wife or children of his own. The child the woman was then, did not understand why this good man was alone.

Now, she gazes up at the blue sky, and sees that perhaps the man was thought to be too 'simple' too 'uncomplicated'. She does not doubt that his love for her mother was true, but on reflection, his intellect would probably not have equalled her mother's, which was quick and restless and ever questing for knowledge.

Another man, with foxy thin features and sly, muddy brown eyes, also fell in love with her mother. A man who had no right to love her mother. He already had a wife, sons, of his own.

As a child the woman had detested this man. The man once told her mother that if looks could kill, her daughter would have surely had him long dead. It was true.

It ended in tears, with her mother's beautiful blue eyes crying. She held no illusions that the man would or could, leave his wife and young sons. She did not wish another broken family, with children to mourn the loss of their father.

Years later, when the woman understood more of the causes of her mother's grief and pain, she remembered the shadows, which often passed across her mother's morning-blue, mourning-blue eyes. She wished her mother's life could have been different.

Wished sometimes that the simple man, with his singing, could have cherished her mother and loved her forever.

Looking up at the later, bluer sky, clouding over, the woman recognized that life's blues are often like the swiftly changing skies.

The Wild Wind.

You cannot see the wind, he said.
I replied, I can.

You will only see it's tracks, he said
I replied, That may be so.

But I can see it in your eyes, I said.
I can see it in your smile.

I know you'll soon be gone from here.
I see your smile is false.

I see your restless breaths, like ripples in the corn,
A swathe across a meadow.

The shadow of the wind~chased cloud
Is written on your face.

His protests sighed, the gusting wind delayed,
His knowledge of his going.

In the night I heard the wind, rise, and call his name
I saw the wind, a master with a slave.

He is gone of course, at the beckon of the wind
I hope his journey, with the wind will keep him safe.

The Stranger's Cat.

The work was hard. Gut wrenchingly, heartbreakingly, hard!

Harder than either of them had anticipated. In ways, largely unseen, it took it's toll. Both physically, and mentally.

The long hours of the days, beginning early, stretching into the late night, often after midnight before the stairs could be climbed, so wearily, so slowly, and the blessed collapse into the warm bed, could begin to to untangle knots of weariness.

Or simply bring an initial oblivion that was neither restful, nor healthy.

There were the many exits and entrances to be checked, double checked, to make sure they were all secure. Window locks to be checked, rechecked. The Garden area had to be checked to be clear, to be locked securely.

Overtiredness often prevented restful sleep. Sudden starts of wakefulness would ensue.
Had there been a noise? A tinkling of glass? Another broken window? Another break-in attempt?

The Country area was so much darker than the City had been. The far reaches of the huge car park area, shadowed, even darker, with the huge pine trees along the perimeters. The row of old, cobbled stables, which were no longer used, since there were no more horses to be stabled.

Homes now to the River Rats. An assortment of old bricks, Timber, Corrugated Iron sheets, broken furniture.
Rumour had it, that a previous owner had housed his pride and joy, an old Jaguar car, in one of the stables.
He seldom, then never, drove the car, but had loved to boast of the fact that he owned it.

One fine day, an admirer of Old Jaguar Cars came to visit, to ask if he could see the prize. Imagine the owner's horror, when he came to show off his pride and joy.
The River Rats had made mince meat of the engine's wiring. They had chewed the leather seats, making wonderfully comfortable homes for their many offspring. Even the woodwork on the dashboard had suffered. There was no part of the once precious vehicle which was untouched.

Locals sniggered, snide remarks about 'Just Deserts' were made about the greedy owner of the Country Hotel.
The locals were heard to murmur such things as " Monument to Ratshit" and
"Rodent Motel".

All that was gone when the new owners, the young couple, with such High Hopes, and Eager Dreams, took on the new prospect, of the Country Hotel.

Each afternoon, the female half of the couple, tired beyond belief, crept up the stairs to have her two hours respite, between Lunch time meals and Evening Dinner, if there were guests, which there often were. If no guests, most often Staff to be fed... after all it was a "Country Hotel", and there were no Takeaway shops to provide food or sustenance for hungry staff.

The Village had a Fish and Chip shop, but hours were limited, and appetites were not always inclined to their fare. The 'Missus' in the Hotel did not 'do' hamburgers, nor meals, apart from staff or guests.

There was a weekend Bistro Restaurant for diners. A chef/cook presided, & Bistro Type Meals were on the menu. Popular. A source for many bitter tears on a Sunday, when the 'Missus' had to clean the grease spattered kitchen, deep fryers, grill plates. The Extractor Fan. A monumental task.

The 'Missus' learnt to despise the 'Bistro/fast food kitchen' with it's fatty detritus, it's film of filth on every surface. The filthy linen, left, smeared & greased, to be cleansed of all grime, before next Restaurant Night.

Every Sunday was spent in tears, of despair, at the futility of it all. She felt she paid far too high a price for her money.
Perhaps if she had not had pets, she would have lost her mind.
Her GP advised her to change her life. Her physical problems were directly caused by her occupation.

One day, she sat in her 'sanctuary' upstairs, watching the passing parade of the small village, below

She noticed a large truck, roll to a stop outside the small cluster of shops in the street. She saw a Ginger cat, appear to disappear under the wheel of the huge truck. She looked again, but saw no cat run, saw no more evidence of the cat.

She waited, feeling very unsure. She watched. The truck driver emerged from the Butcher, and started his vehicle. He had walked around the truck, as if he, too, had felt perhaps an animal may be hiding there.
As he began to roll, slowly off, there tumbled out a Ginger cat, from a wheel well.

The watcher, from the Hotel, sprang to her feet, raced downstairs & rushed accross the street.
The Driver, sprang from his seat, & ran to the back of his truck, just as the watcher arrived.
"Oh My God" he said. "I had a feeling there was a cat there, but I could not find it!"
"I know" the watcher replied, "I was watching. I could not believe it was still there!"
She scooped the cat into her arms. "I will take it to the vet. I have no idea whose cat it is, but it needs help!"

She raced to the vet, which was close, in the Village.
The vet took one look decided it had internal injuries.
"Hold it for me?" she asked the watcher.
"Of course" the watcher replied.
"It's gums are pale, it has internal bleeding, injuries."

As the watcher held the cat, it died. She was so glad to have been able to hold the poor animal, to try to give it comfort. Tell it she loved it.

She knew her days as a Country Hotelkeeper were severly numbered.
In days that followed she shed many tears for the Stranger's Cat. No one came forward to claim the poor little Ginger Cat.

A Page for Her.

The ebb and the flow, seem, somehow, uneven. There appears to be more ebb, than flow.
She knows this must be an illusion, but she cannot get past the notion, the sheer enormity, of the ebbing.

Oh, they say, you must get on with things.

Oh, she thinks, who will make me? And laughs, slyly, to herself at the childish thought.

Life might seem a pain, they say, But the alternative is worse.

Oh yeah?, she thinks, Who says so? Right now, the alternative looks really, really, attractive! I could embrace the alternative, as long as I could go, with no pain!
This pain of living, is too much. This pain of mind, is too much. This pain of physical being, is too much!!
On second thoughts, I could take the pain of going.
As long as I was gone.


The ebbing is shaded with images of children, neglected, abused, blighted, forever.
The ebbing includes the rabbits, trapped in cages.
The beautiful tropical Parrots, captive in cages.
The bears, trapped, in cages.

The ebbing contains the starved, malnourished, trust-abused, beaten, domestic animals. The ebbing is filled with the thoughts that they are still willing and able to forgive, and love.

There is more sadness, than pleasure, for her, in a rainbow. It has come to represent a false promise of hope.
After all, what is it, really?
Just light refracted, reflected, arranged in colours which delude.
She is certain, the pitiful range of colours observed by human eye, are miniscule.
She is also certain, she will never see the myriad other colours reflected there.

She realises she has lost her Rose Coloured Glasses, somewhere out on the plains. Perhaps they were swept away on the rivers of vast water.
Perhaps they were lost on the ebb.

It somehow seems, her tide will never rise again...

Lost Child

The small child that hangs on the wall
Seems to bear no resemblance to me.
Who was that child?
Confident, loved? I don't see that.
Hurt, lost, abandoned?
With time, perception altered.

Or is this the overlayed,
Imprint on that image,
With the benefit of hindsight?

She sits, with a still smile
fixed forever on her small face.
The delicate tints of the colourist,
Interpreting the given details.
The accoutrements fake,
Added, to try to bring that smile.

This portrait, hung on the wall.
For most of my life, a constant.
I still look upon that smiling face,
And know the false picture
presented there.

The Sea

The sea lashed itself to fury,
as it thrashed upon the wounded, aching, sand.
It withdrew itself with ebbing, boiling, rage.
An arrogant refusal to apologise
or retreat, from confrontation.


The orphaned, uprooted kelp
lay helpless upon the shore.
Knowing, it is an incidental victim,
of rage, of deep, dark, disturbing,
unrest that lies within, the sea's
deepest, primeval, emotions.


The sea, thunders again to shore
Shouting! 'You dare to threaten, challenge me?
I will crush you, demolish your very being!'
'Ah, but you must retreat', I reply.
'You cannot remain, and,.
If I dance beyond your reach,
your threats are idle, impotent'.


Who would dare to taunt the sea?
Who, could be so foolish? So ignorant of danger?
The sibilant hiss of the sea subsiding,
whispered of revenge to come,
Hissed, of eons to keep the rage alive.
"I will triumph" the waves declared.
"Revenge is mine" as it crashed upon the shore.

Who cannot retreat, beyond such threat?
We like to think, we are beyond such monstrosity.
We are puppets, dancing to some preordained rhythm
A dance upon a savage tide
Which is well outside our control.

Old Man's Life.

He is 98 years old. His wife died some 20 years before, and he has lived alone ever since. He kept good health for most of his life.

In fact, his health was better than his wife's. She could not have children, was dreadfully upset when she found out she needed a hysterectomy, at only 33 years of age, dashing any hopes she had that there may be a miracle. No one seemed to know exactly why she could not have children. Or, if they did, no one ever told her. Certainly, cancer was never mentioned.

They were quiet respectful people, who didn't think to question authority figures, such as Doctors. She went quietly, bravely, for her surgery, came home and recovered, and they didn't discuss it further, she and her husband. Just accepted that that was their fate.

She did once ask him if he would like a divorce, so he could find another woman, who might bear his child. He scoffed at her, picked her small body up, and twirled her around in the warm kitchen. He told her that it seemed he had loved her all his life, and he was content to keep on loving her.

He tended his gardens, selling his vegetables in his little shop. She would help when she could, and she took in sewing to help with the money. They had a happy life together, for the most part. He with his vegetables, she with her sewing and her cooking. In the evenings they often sat on the veranda, reading or talking, as they watched the sun set.

Sometime she would catch him talking to his tomatoes, his cheerful, soft, voice coaxing them along. She really laughed when she caught him singing to his pumpkins, his light tenor voice so happy & tuneful. He sometimes sang as he dug his potatoes too, though it was not such free flowing singing then.

Then she got breast cancer. There was more cutting away of her being, more hospital time. She came home even smaller, and was very quiet. Sometimes he saw she was crying, so he crept away, to leave her to her private grief.

A few more years passed. Another cancer, the second breast cut away. Less of her than ever. Somehow she never seemed to regain her strength after that surgery. She just grew smaller, sadder, till she finally gave up the cancer race.

After his wife died, he never had the same enthusiasm for his garden. He sold his little shop, and though he still grew vegetables for himself, he never grew enough to sell, though whenever he had surplus, he would give it away, to neighbours or friends. He would still occasionally hum a little tune to the pumpkin or the cucumber vines.

Cancer had had it's little nibbles at him, but nothing compared to her trials. He had several skin cancers cut off his face. One on his ear, another on his nose, which required a skin graft. All those years out in his gardens, they told him at the Hospital.

"You must wear your hat! You must wear sunscreen! Stay out of the sun!"

Then at 96 he had been told that he had prostate cancer. He went to hospital, had tests, surgery, more tests, more tests, some sort of treatment. He was not sure what exactly it had all meant, but finally he was told he should be alright.

Somehow it seemed slightly ridiculous to think he was still alive and OK after all these years.

He often wondered "For what? or why?" There were more times lately that he felt confused and thought life was very strange.

His hair was snow white and very thick still. He wondered about baldness, and could remember his father had seemed always bald to him, when he was a child.

He now had a little home assistance. He could still manage to get his own meals, but he had help to clean his house. A person would come to take him for Doctor's appointments or his eye tests. He had someone take him to do his shopping, because he occasionally became a little confused, or forgot what he needed to restock.

Now he refused to buy new clothes. What was the point, was they way he looked at it. He still had enough to clothe his body, and keep him warm when winter came. Never mind about fashion. "At my age?" he laughed, when one of his care workers had asked him if he would like to look at some new clothes, or shoes. This was said, as she glanced at his old baggy track pants, and his elderly slippers, which was his customary footwear.

Today, he had got up early to have his shower, and pack his little bag, he was taking to the hospital. He didn't need much and he had got dressed with the careworker to help him, if he needed any assistance.

When they got to the Hospital, the nurses were somewhat puzzled as to why he had his bag? The careworker was a new girl, she had been told he was to be overnight in hospital.
"No no," the nurses said, "He is only in for a checkup today. He won't be staying."

"Will you be alright?" his careworker asked.
"I don't know.. someone usually comes with me." he seemed a little bewildered. He had prepared himself for an overnight stay. He couldn't quite work out what was going on.

The careworker rang to find out further instructions. She felt she could not leave this dear, bewildered old gentleman on his own. She had another client, so could not remain.

She was instructed to leave him there. Public transport was mentioned. He couldn't possibly manage that on his own. She felt terribly torn.
She thought she just might give this job away.
There was increasing heartache. Money was being pinched for services. Expenses were being 'trimmed' and 'cut'.

The nurses looked quite disgusted. The careworker felt terrible. She could see the nurses discussing the situation in their little glass cubicle.

The Old Man sat quietly, clutching his little old bag, looking at his slippers.