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,
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.
‘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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