Cafe Lunch

What joy to sit solitary reading
big city newspapers leisurely
consuming latte and neat little
club sandwiches or scrambled
eggs on toast if I’m feeling
ravenous in the cosy surrounds
of the local cafe.

I’m told “meet more people”,
“get an interest”, “join a club”,
but it all takes up time I
could spend on writing and I
know lots of people already.
I need peace from their
jabbering to write out the
ideas sloshing around in my
head. Wind down time in a
local cafe rebalances
my equilibrium.

A cafe lunch not made by me
is a delicious change from
soup and toast eaten while
lounging on my couch at home.

Previously posted September 2016

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Cafe Lunch

Lady Who Lunches

I’m a lady who lunches
such a grand status after
years of work lunches
snatched at top speed.
Sometimes a fifteen minute
sit down with sandwiches
and caffeine but often
it was lunches on legs
with so much to do
between AM and PM slots.

Now I’m a pensioner with
a modest income since I
found no part time work
in our stagnant local market
with few new openings
for those over fifty years old.
I was lucky to work
till I was sixty four.

Retired former workmates
and I dine out each month
– if we go grand one month
we eat Chinese the next.
But lunch out costs less
than dinner out costs so
one day a week I’m a
lady who lunches in local
cafes eating chef prepared
meals in stylish surroundings.
Sometimes with friends,
sometimes alone, but more
classy than sammies and tea
on the couch at home.

Previously posted September 2016

Lady Who Lunches

Solo

The one level block of flats
spreads along side a narrow
lawn bordering thee footpath.
Each flat’s front door joins
the foot path along thin concrete
strips bisecting the lawn.
each little cell is walled off
from its fellows in the block.

Together yet apart.

The newspaper photo showed
it silent lawn and front doors
with no one in sight. Underneath
the report said an old lady
had died in one of those flats,
lain dead on her floor three days.

No one had missed her, only
a neighbour up the road who
spoke briefly with her each day
as she passed on her way
to the shops. They would greet
each other, discuss the neighbour’s
work in her front garden, but
never exchanged names.

The neighbour worried for
three mornings when she did
not come by, then rang the
police who found the old lady
dead on the floor of her flat.

Solo in death as in life.

Previously posted September 2016

Solo

An Outing

Seemingly sitting in her living room
forever,she saw daily the sofa and
armchairs in their worn floral coats
the mirror in its brassy frame rubbed
up weekly by the home help from
social services. Unable to even
shower on her own her failing body
jailed her in her own home.

Her daughters and granddaughters
visited, sometimes moving her in
her walker into the conservatory
where she stared out into the
street from her big old chair
waving to passing neighbours.

She envied her husband his mobility
scooter freedom but was thankful for
his company. He knew her feelings,
one day helping her, puffing and
gasping, on to his scooter, as her
lumbering body sagged its weight
on to the scooter’s chair.

Triumphantly she rode down the ramp
to their driveway, down to the street
as he stumbled haphazardly after her
on the walking frame. Excitedly she
looked up and down the street.
Sheer exhilaration ! Her Everest
remembered from months ago.

Now her body’s painful objections
stabbed through her. She gasped, leant
back in the chair, then turned at last
back up her driveway, into her home

into her living room cell.

Her last outing.

Previously posted September 2016

An Outing

Weeping Willow

Gusting wind stirs
the supple muscular boughs of
willow’s giant torso

tossing flowing waves
of long lush leafy tresses
rippling silver green.

Mossy trunked willow
towers high in his garden
planted in early city
days. Urban dwellers
knew nothing of willow roots

seeking streams to slake
continual thirst lifting
backyards paths driveways
sucking up water lavished
on vegetables, flowers, lawns.

Previously posted August 2016

Weeping Willow

Tui

Blue and green iridescence
shimmer off the tui’s dark
feathers in the morning sun,
the little love knot of curling
white feathers at his throat
complete his sartorial elegance,
a simple fashion statement
for the autocratic parson bird.

From the kowhai tree’s summit
ablaze with golden flowers
his raucous shrieks warn
lowly blackbirds and thrushes
to vacate his territory.
His swooping attacks spur
them to flee – his sharp
nectar sucking beak pecks
vicious wounds in birds
unwise enough to stay.

One little tui he allows to
remain. Her feathers too have
the shimmering iridescence, the
little white love knot at her
throat. Now the regal tui
sings to her a love song of
purest warbling notes, clear high
trilling in a liquid flow that
fills the suburban garden. She
flits the suburban garden. She
flits through the branches of
his tree, enjoying golden kowhai
nectar under his protective eye
in the glowing morning sunlight.

Previously posted August 2016

 

Tui