bottlebrush flower |
The
cold is lasting longer than usual this year. I have usually turned my heater
off by now, not to be used again until April. Huge power bills notwithstanding,
we continue to huddle in front of the heater while the temperature fluctuates
like a faulty gauge. I keep reminding myself that the week the rain ceases and
the sun unleashes its full power, we’ll all be moaning about how unbearably hot
it is, or living in dread of a bushfire. At least our gardens are still green
and flourishing, and the smell of smoke does not strike fear. Hooray for the
mild seasons!
This
week’s poem is the first of a trilogy which I will present over the next five
weeks as its component poems, and then put them all together on the last week.
I’ll intersperse short stories, as usual, so that those who prefer prose can
still find their goodies.
Calling card
This
morning I communed with a rosella
through
the dusty glass of my window.
He
perched on a swaying twig of bottlebrush,
seeking
a companion
with
the ringing call of his kind,
glowing
red and orange in the sunshine.
Then
he turned an eye towards me
and
began bobbing and chucking like a budgie,
inquiring.
With
gentle movement, talking and singing,
I
sent him on his search with a blessing.
My
friend rosella was, vividly tangible,
God’s
calling card,
for
I, too, had been looking for company,
responding
to the song of the creator
and
listening, heart open, to his words
as he blessed me on my way.
Until next week…
Claire Belberg
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