Sunday — My Garden
It’s Sunday.
I have to mow,
tidy the mess I call
my garden.
But first I’ll have a cuppa,
while I plan how to attack
my growing problem.
The grass is knee-high
The vegies need watering
The edges need trimming.
The front first, I think,
The neighbours are complaining.
But first, I’ll have my cuppa.
A fresh breath of sea air
chases itself through
the palm and hibiscus leaves.
It kisses my cheeks,
insinuates itself into
my awareness, then skips off.
I lift my face.
Mama and Papa sea eagle,
dark wings extended from brawny white chests,
glide through endless blue,
which pulls my soul
into its fascinating emptiness.
A duo of yellow fairies,
tiny sunbirds,
flit across the veranda
on their way to their hanging nest
suspended from an old chain
looped around the rafters of the car port
In, out, flit, flit…disappear.
Flutter-bys, pthalo blue and brilliant green
suckle and dip, hover and sip
from the cerise bloom
of the ramshackle bouganvillea.
Unkempt, untrimmed
but very much cared for
it lounges in the far corner
soaking up winter warmth.
A pair of forest kingfishers
flashing azure jewel wings
visit the fish pond.
One stands guard, the other
throws caution to the wind
and plunges in for a bracing bath.
A blue-wing watches haughtily
from the rusty gutter of the shed
He gives a derisive half-laugh
before flapping off to share the joke
with his mates in the bushland
beyond my back fence.
They loudly enjoy his point of view.
Overhead, an extended family
of white cockatoos shout
jocular abuse at each other
as they scatter, gather and scatter
in search of the nearest
free feed.
The wind rushes back
bringing the smell of distant fire
and a group of blue-banded honeyeaters
to squabble over nectar
hidden in red bottle brush,
which sway and dance
under their weight.
I join them
take my first sip.
The tea is as cold as the morning
I’ll heat it up and then
…I’ll mow.
But first I’ll have my cuppa.
Per Rose Oddly 