Devolution

                    Welcome!

dead eucalypt

With two winters of good rainfall recently and the resulting greenery, this dead eucalypt is a stark reminder that drought is ‘normal’ in the Australian climate cycle. The new owners of this property will have to pay quite a sum to have this removed before it falls onto their house, or their neighbour’s, in a storm. Unfortunately, that means the local rosellas will lose one of their favourite nesting spots, in a hole where the trunk curves. That’s the dilemma of a modern living, isn’t it? The tension between human safety and native habitat. The birds had better make the most of it while this tree is still theirs.

Instead of a story this week, I have posted a satire in the form of a short play. Let me know what you think of it!

Devolution: a salutary tale

Two monkeys on a raft in a river.

They approach a fork and follow the main flow to the right.

Monkey 1 (smaller): I don’t think we should be going this way. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.

Monkey 2: You and your feelings! We need to be logical about this. There is no known reason why we shouldn’t go this way.

The river banks get steeper.

Smaller monkey: I’m really not happy about this. I’m sure something’s not right about this place.

Bigger monkey: Pah! Intuition superstition. We’ve never been here before so how can we know anything about it?

The river runs faster between high cliffs, and boulders begin to appear in the water ahead of them.

Anxious monkey: I don’t know how, but it feels familiar, like a faint memory…

Bold monkey (trying to sound patient, but failing): Oh, I see – a memory, race consciousness, that sort of thing. Well, whatever is causing your feeling is in the past now. We need to look ahead and let bygones be bygones.

Monkey 1 (becoming agitated): No, no, no. We need to stop before it’s too late! (Tries to grab hold of a boulder they sweep past)

Monkey 2: Really, all this emotion is unnecessary. Look, you’re making the raft wobble! Calm down, and let’s just enjoy the ride. We’ll be fine, you’ll see.

Monkey 1 (getting wild with the impending sense of doom): You don’t understand! There’s danger ahead. We need to do something now or it will be too late!

The raft races through a narrow channel, barely fitting between the sheer walls.

Monkey 2 (restraining smaller monkey): For goodness’ sake, will you calm down? You’re making this unpleasant for both of us. It’s all in your head – just a matter of perspective. It will work out okay, I promise.

The channel suddenly releases the raft into a wide expanse of water and a magnificent view of lands beyond a shining lip of water.

Monkey 1 (looking around, puzzled): So you really think we’re okay? It’s just been a false anxiety? Oh, maybe you’re right.

Monkey 2 (soothing): Yes, yes, that’s right. Calm and rational wins out. There’s nothing to fear at all, see?

At which moment the raft slips smoothly over the edge and plunges into the pounding abyss hundreds of metres below, and our monkeys and their makeshift raft are never seen again.

Until next week… (the blog, not the monkeys)

Claire Belberg 

A Month On: the final poem of a trilogy

                         Welcome!

Absent - one rosella

Others may disagree, but I think this spring in the Adelaide Hills has performed a rare show of warming up gradually. This is a pleasant and wondrous phenomenon. Typically, Adelaide’s weather seems to know little moderation; it’s hot as, or it’s cold (by comparison). One can never adapt because the range varies so much, often changing the maximum temperature by 10 degrees Celsius from one day to the next, in either direction. Thank you, Spring, for a gentle introduction to the heat and dryness of a Mediterranean summer downunder.

The final poem of the trilogy 'The futility of attempting capture' is here unveiled. I have added the first two poems (in grey) before it so that you can easily read the whole set. Scroll down to the new one if it all seems too familiar!

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.

A month on

I imagined he was alone

because he was seeking, waiting

for the right one in this season

of mating and ritual.

Daily I heard the ringing ‘pip, pip’ of the mate-call,

daily I caught up the camera

to frame him in his rosella glory

arrayed just out of reach.

The calls sounded

and I stopped whatever I was doing:

‘This time…’

I have become the lover

at the end of your siren song,

You, wild and free, calling

Me, captive to the intent of a perfect picture, answering.

But your only reply

is that lichened twig where we first met,

quivering with your absence.

I'd love to read your stories of communing with wild creatures, so why not post a comment with your own story here?

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

'Oh Bobby'

                   Welcome!

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

Calling Card

                   Welcome!

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