Poseidon fed us toads, still, we fished, and talked of bigger, edible fish that would come. We fished, me, my Dad, my son…it was good.
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Late afternoon, from the house on the hill into the winter-chill, against the biting wind and along the high-fenced tunnel-lane. Quickly, step by step, to the short-grassed paddock with its gradual rise to steep slopes littered with lichen-covered rocky-outcrops. On the ridge, beneath ancient pines is the shaggy outline of a winter pony. The wind reddens fingers and carries a small voice to the pony in the distance. Ears prick and the pony trots her way down the winding sheep-track, aching for a warm pat, and her working-horse mix.
Clamber through fence, rusty barbed-wire grabs wool and pulls yet another strand. Stroking the pony’s neck just behind her ear, soft dust coats palm and fingers, grime lodges under nails. Her breath and mine come in white puffs as the evening pushes the sun below the hills to the west. Minutes pass as the red pony munches and snorts; the cold really sets in. I lean against her shoulder stealing some of her warmth and watch her mouth nuzzle at the food, her breath blows small pieces of chaff around the feed-drum, where it sticks to the moist sides making patterns I try to read the future from. Too soon she is finished and after a few more pats, she turns and heads back to the shelter and comfort of the old pines. I watch her as she walks up the steep hill, tempted to call her back for just one more happy moment.
Early evening, the wind howls and I shiver as I grab the feed-bucket and negotiate slowly through barbed-wire. I walk along the tunnel-lane and emerge to see the lights on in the house on the hill. It looks warm and inviting, but most days it is anything but. I put my hands to my face and inhale, the pony-dirt lingers in my nostrils as I make my way, slowly, to the house on the hill.
Before the sun comes up, our day begins.
In the small hours before dawn we touch as we wake.
Our breath comes slow, then fast.
They are our finest hours, those small ones.
On the horizon, the sun teases the landscape with light and warmth.
We part.
Before the sun comes up I flit off,
sometimes to capture what I can of those sun-teased dawn-moments.
And you go to create artful, beautiful, man-made things.
Muted colours, creativity, strong love.
Our sun always rises.
Happiness is not omnipresent,
it often comes in dribs and drabs…
but it always comes.
And, I like it like that,
because to be happy always
is not possible if one lives a lived-in life.
Success crowns effort, right?
Today, I am engulfed by happiness.
The unknown of tomorrows can go fuck themselves.
I have you,
And you have altered my state.
I’m bored with the black and white thing. I’m sore in all the best ways. I’m tentative. I’m delirious. I’m falling, not so slowly. I’m ignoring the cat as she rubs against my legs. I’m getting a divorce, it’s on my list of things to do today. I’m sad that I can be so flip about the divorce. I’m glad to be doing it though. I’m just plain old happy!
How are you?
“Well, think about it, you are the epitome of normal, compared to you, everyone is fucked up!”
“Well yes, obviously. I’m totally normal!”
…
“Apart from your irrational fear of flying.”
“Ah yes, there is that.”
“Oooh, and your panic attacks.”
“Those too.”
“And your fear of commitment.”
“Yes. And I do rather like anchovies.”
“And you’re sarcastic on a level and frequency that goes way beyond normal.”
“You’re thinking about this too hard.”
“And you’re mean to ugly people.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are!”
“I am fucking not!”
“And you swear way too much and at inappropriate times.”
“Fuck you!”
“Haha.”
“Hehe.”
“You are normal…it’s just that opposites attract.”
“I love you, even though you’re fucking ugly”
“I love you too Freakgirl.”
If you know a man is prone to crying, and you don’t like that,
Break up with him in public, over a good beer,
After 18 holes of golf (for which he has paid).
It quells the tear-show.
And the guilt you will feel will be much diminished.
As the butterflies flit behind him and the hot sun browns your skin.
The bottlebrush, so tempting in the afternoon sun-glow. Lean out, just a little, over rail, on tiptoe, don’t look down, cold hand into sun, warm tingle; this is feeling.
Fingers, arm, toes, calves, back, reach-stretch. Eyes drop, momentarily, instant vertigo rush; this is feeling.
Palm touches sun-kissed leaves, they are soft-spiky and warm. Sun reddened stamens elude fingertips, sit back and drink in their colour; this is feeling.
