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Saturday, 27 October 2012

'Oh Bobby'

gelder roses

The garden is flourishing this spring. Blooms are larger, more voluptuous than they have been for some years. I would like to think it was because of my attentions, but I suspect it’s mostly two years of adequate rains and milder temperatures. The gelder roses have never been such an impressive size. I hope the conditions continue to favour my new plants, replacements for the many we lost because of drought and water restrictions. If I have chosen well and been faithful in establishing them, the new plants will thrive when the next drought comes – an Australian certainty.

This week we have the second poem of the trilogy, ‘The futility of attempting capture’. The first poem is also shown (in grey) so that you can see the first two parts together. Stay tuned for the final in a fortnight (and an unrelated story next week, for those who prefer fiction to poetry).

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,
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.

‘Oh Bobby’
I called him Bobby after that first visit
when he’d warmed my heart
and charmed my imagination with his antics of bird curiosity.
He returned to that lichened twig by my window
several times a day
and I determined to capture it,
to celebrate our friendship
with a photograph, framed
neatly by the window (now washed).

Friendship, huh.

‘Oh Bobby’ became the wail of my longing
as all that remained of every attempt –
me creeping close with the camera poised
while he watched with one eye,
twitched and flew before the shutter closed.
The best I managed was a blurry shot, claimed
in triumph
and accidentally erased the same day –
all that remained was the flash of colour as he retreated,
to return another time with
his luring call and practised nonchalance.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg

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