friends and distant relatives
“what are you doing these days”
turning to proud parents
“hasn’t he done well!”
Festive season in the Southern Hemisphere
sunshine, sand, surf.
Back to the south
Urrggh ….. but good once there – fulfilling
holidays not quite let go
cricket echoes through the workplace
“what’s the score
………. has he got a hundred yet?”
I resolve to swim each day before work
Bike + tide + bike
it lasts two days.
the long go nowhere evenings
rise up and expel morning apathy
with sunset cycling.
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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