not even a chirrup.
I hear the murmur of voices and then a door closing
a car starting and the high pitch of a small child calling out from the verandah
‘love youu love youuu love youuuu
as he waves off his mother now midwife
who works in a hospital a long drive from here.
I snuggle back in and hope he does too.
I resist wakefulness and turn back to the dream world
seeking glimmers of my nighttime journeys.
the door opens, a small shape enters barely visible in the half light
and climbs up onto the bed pressing firmly against me.
and then rather loudly for the hour I thought,
‘soooo granddad is up making tea and toast for us in bed’
he says with a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice.
mmmm … I inhale the divine radiance of innocence and adventures yet to be had.
I know how lucky I am to be here
in this moment.
this day this new day
this never before seen heard or felt day.
the sky is milky and the forest a huddle of dark shapes against it.
first one chip-choo-chippychoo and then a long while later others begin-
a whistle… pip pip… twee twee ..some laughter and
melodies that rise out of the silence to fill the spaces inbetween.
small shapes flit across the verandah from stem to shrub to flower to post.
And this is why I am here
to be present for this beauty
this Song of Life.
the other morning I got out of bed and discovered a dead kingfisher on the verandah.
looked to me like it had bonked itself out hitting the window.
this happens a bit and sometimes we can pick them up
hold them to our hearts and they will recover to go on and sing the tale.
too late for this little fella.
and what an outfit with its rich royal blueness on head and back
perfectly set off by an orange breast.
little cream flashes below the ear and a long deadly beak complete the lush look.
I pop it in a box so I can show the wee king when he gets home from school.
he strokes its softness crooning ‘I’m sorry you died’
and off we go to bury it under the lemon verbena.
‘we need something to remember,’ he says and his hands make a cross.
well where on earth did he learn that I wonder?
so we gather two bits of wood from his scrap pile and a rubber band,
‘write on it’ grandma
so I write kingfisher buried here .
And this is who I am
a dweller inside these tiny moments
these tiny no things
these little capsules of Life going about its busyness.
whispering clouds have come to the day
unfurling their fine spinners thread across the blue blue canvas.
they are unhurried and speak of events yet to happen.
I see wind coming and wings lifting
I see arrows and feathers fanned out like fine lace.
a soft breeze coats my face and bare limbs.
a white butterfly rises and dips about the crimson buddleia.
the air now holds the thickness of summer noon
an indolent heat stretching forever
into the joy of the seasons harvest.
our hands sticky with juice – apple pear peach plum -running over our chins
as we take a break from writing
from sitting at the round table
where our pens have been carving warrior words of radical thoughts and creative spells.
a web being designed now
with kindness and passion
with humility and courage.
one stitch at a time I weave into the spell of harmony
one stitch in time saves nine my mother always said.
same thing really.
the circle is open not unbroken
and while tattered fragmented thoughts of an old order demand attention
we resist the urge to grab them.
I am a card player.
I am a mystic.
I am a mountain home.
I am the hand that weaves and the heart that sings.
it is my time
it is your time.
it is timeless and unknown.
each cloud each wisp each birdsong tells a story
that squirms into my cells strengthening my resolve.
the kingfisher died and I remember that this form I hold will also pass.
And so while I am here
I will hang about in the tiny moments of Life living
in the little graces offered
by cloud and butterfly ,
in the wee utterances
of bird and child.