Each walk along a familiar route, I look for something new; or to see something afresh.
The changing seasons help, with each one bringing in new colours, plants, birds and changes of mood.
Just now it is summer, but here on the edge of the southernmost regions of the Pacific, on an island that lies pretty close, relatively speaking, to the Antarctic, summer does not always mean hot and sunny.
I look out of the window for inspiration. Unexpectedly, it turns out to be a weed that has something to say to me. I figure beggars can’t be choosers, so I don’t spurn its advance – for today. Tomorrow I may very well take to it with the shears before it completely smothers the fuchsia.
Beside me, the wind is whistling
a fine tune through a gap it has found
in the frame between a window’s glass and sill
as outside, each flower petal bends in order
to survive what I imagine to be their lament
for this present disappearance of warmth;
lodged against summer’s cold shoulder.
As the southern rata softly bleeds
scarlet bristles on to concrete;
I choose not to recall betrayals, instead,
attempt a dumb embrace
of a jet’s tumult as it heads north
above this muttering storm
and note the corrupt, white strangler,
the convolvulus flower in its quivering bid
for a free ride towards the coast of light
it was born to reach for, at whatever cost.
Such trials of seeing and listening
to learn again the lessons of why,
here and now, heaven does not reach out
to the twisting weed’s pure flower cupped
to catch the rain, that like me
is on the same rude ride
to wherever we believe the horizon
crashes on to its shore of sky.
Kay McKenzie Cooke