Personal Stationery

On Christmas Day
the excited five year
old received her very
own personal stationery
with flowers and elves
on toadstools along the
bottom of the pages and
the back of the envelopes.

Her seven year old sister
writes on her own notepaper
and envelopes with fairies
on to Grandma and Grandad
living a few hours away, to
uncle and aunt in the big city.

Previously the five year old
wrote on Mum’s notepaper
to the fairies, to Grandma
and Grandad. She told Mum
what she wanted to say, then
copied the words Mum wrote.

Both sisters wrote to Santa
before Christmas with their
requests. They asked him too
to look out for the tabby hunter
who strolled off one Sunday
morning five months ago
and never returned. The
fairies have not seen her.

Still the five year old has
her own personal stationery
to write many more letters
to family and to fairies.

Previously posted March 2017.

Personal Stationery

Car Seats

Dad removed the girls’
car seats, laid them on the
driveway, fixed a frame
for a baby capsule behind
the front seats ready for
the new family member
due to arrive soon.

On the long back seat of
the seven seater  van he
fixed the girls’ car seats
then they all climbed into
the van and drove  off to
the vast mega hardware
store to buy hedge plants.

“You’re sucking your thumbs !”
called Dad. The girls aghast
stared at each other in shock !

When behind the front seats their
own seats faced backwards, out of
sight of their parents’  sharp eyes.

Now in the back of the van they
faced forwards ! The rear vision
mirror exposed thumb suckers
to their parents’ alert gaze.

big school girls should only
suck their thumbs in bed at
night as they go to sleep.

Previously posted March 2017.

Car Seats

At The Beach

Across the sand sprawls
the narrow river from its
winding course to the sea.
Salt laden sea winds buffet
a cluster of cottages in the
shelter of ragged ageing
macrocarpa trees.

We enjoyed several summers
in the end one. Boards cracked
and warped by sun and wind
shed flakes of paint in every
wind blast, rust crumbs flew
from the corrugated iron roof.

Inside chipped painted hardboard
lined the walls, chips peeled off
the linoleum’s hessian backing.
Above the kitchen bench shelves
held mismatched cups, glasses, plates.
Below the drawers held equally
worn cutlery and utensils.
Sagging beds and bunks with
thin battered pillows lay under
thin worn blankets and a
film of windblown sand.

At low tide we dug on the
beach for cockles,* at low tide
we caught small fish from the dinghy.
We climbed trees, followed tracks
found caves under rocky overhangs.

At nights we slept soundly
to the sound of the wind, waves,
and the rattling of dusty sand.

Previously posted March 2017

At The Beach

Weather

The weather does not read
or follow the local forecast.
In heavy rain my umbrella
keeps my upper half dry
while my shoes and trouser
legs become wringing wet.

Today’s forecast was for cloudy
skies when I got up early to
catch one of our little city’s
few buses in time for my
errands in town. As I left
to catch the bus the skies
blackened, letting loose a
mighty torrential deluge.

Still needing to get to town
with no sign of rain or
darkness abating, along with
all other stranded souls I
called a taxi which finally
arrived and charged more
than the free bus ride
granted by my pensioner card.
And still it rained.

The weather has offered
no refund. I am the one
left carefully adjusting
my pensioner budget.

Previously posted March 2017.

Weather