Posted in Unexpected


In the neighbourhood
just before year’s end
a new family
young children
noise, enthusiasm and energy.

For Christmas
pleaded from Santa perhaps
a trampoline
they bounce in and out of our lives
the fence an intermittent conversation barrier.

Blue sky equity
from sunwake to dusk
a trio of shareholders
pass greetings, comments and gossip
as they bounce through summer holidays.

One day a broken fence paling
a neighbour enquires to the oscillating children.
They know nothing
and saw less.

The man in that house thought it was you
she tells one.
The seven-year-old springs cautiously
while pondering the identification.

“He might have been lying ”
is offered between ascents
the neighbour, a teacher of 30 years and mother of four
admiring the effrontery
and about to faint with laughter
drops the charges and awards cost to herself.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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