For Katie

Our rural queen

controlled her realm

with no nonsense looks -

used a teacher's glare to

deter brazen subjects.

Proud mother,

she delegated her litter

to a peke who

shepherded his flock

while her majesty

prowled perameters

Scourge of snakes,

mouser extrodinair,

she maintained boundaries

taught newcomers

royalty's rules.

Who will watch over

me now, while I garden,

pretending to sleep

under the bush I prune,

or play tug with the hose

to demonstrate (or hone?)

snake killing techniques?

How I miss your flashing eyes

your sense of fun

and dignity,

your lording it over the dogs,

wrap lesser beings around

perfect claws

as you inform me

the day shift has arrived

and claim the bed.

Spring

Since last posting the weather has turned suddenly. After a wonderful, replenishing rain Spring has arrived and it is absolutely beautiful. I wish I could post the smell as well as these pics.

My jackaranda (sp) is now tall enough to be visible all over town, the purple flowers are falling and mingling with the mahogany leaves and it really looks like a painting.

The raintrees are obscene, the blooms are so prolific. And the perfume in the early morning and evening is supurb. And now I discover my frangipani is flowering.

I wrote this poem last year, this season tops last years, so far.

Oh I love this time of year. Taking the dog for a walk (he still misses his mate, as we do) is an absolute pleasure - the town is covered in blossoms. Great time for a honeymoon.

And the birds, can't forget them. Hawks follow us and swoop and climb on the thermals in the early morning breezes. There are so many this year. And emus too apparently. We have a resident bower bird that keeps us entertained with his repetoir as he tries to pinch a bright blue bead that is part of my wind chime. And the honey eaters... And of course, can't forget the cockatoos and parrots that are enjoying the bounty.

My Garden in Spring (Tra-la).

Satin bright leaves cover the yard like dots in an impressionist painting. Lighter ones, arranged by benevolent breezes, float like confetti to mingle with crimson and white bougainvillea and butterflies. Raintree blossoms scent the air and carpet red soil with fluffy green pom-poms. Tiny finches and honeyeaters form entrancing mobiles from the branches, peeping enjoyment.

A Neem tree brushes my window, my favourite curtain laden with lacy white flowers and honey to entice the bush bees before sunrise. Monet magic. Frances Mackay (c) 2007

Looking for Ali-cat

The Cat killer is still on the loose. His score is 17 now. He destroyed our newest acquisition after watching us play together as I raked the leaves. Half an hour later he'd vanished and, next day, the blackboard had another cat's head up. Then the hero left town for 3 weeks. Here is a photo of our dog and his mate. I didn't think an animal would remember for this long...

Searching for Ali-cat.

Bandit's at the back door

trying to come in,

grabbing my attention

with his silly grin.

He's searching for his playmate,

his partner in crime,

knows he should be here -

this dog can tell the time.

But Ali-cat has vanished,

he's just another score

upon a killer's blackboard

and oh, our hearts are sore

to see our hopeful Bandit

searching for his mate,

prowling 'round the garden,

peering through the gate.

Three weeks ago it happened

and still he's looking for

the company of Ali-cat

who's not here anymore.

How to tell this loyal dog

his little friend is dead,

killed by a sick human

who'se not right in the head?

Memories

It is a bit of a shock to remember that I was born in the first half of the 20th century. Someone told me I was a living dinosaur, I guess they are right. It got me thinking about way back then and this spouted.

Hero.

It was in the 1950s

they shearers held a strike

complaining of some small thing

they said they didn't like.

It was the best wool season

we had seen for years

when the **@B@#** mongrels

downed their power shears.

Farmers were astounded

at what the men had done.

Sheep were penned already

brought in from the run.

No shearer would dare gainsay,

not break the union law,

wouldn't cross the picket line

regardless what they saw.

One brave lad from Queensland,

passing through the town,

didn't like what they'd done

and muttered with a frown,

"I'll take the buggers on,

I'll earn my pay and keep,

I ain't a gun shearer

but I can handle sheep."

His handsome bronze complexion

made our southern men seem pale,

our strapping football players

looked seedy, not so hale.

He stayed and finished the job,

dossed down in a pen,

ignored the union reps who called,

the threats from other men.

A farmer's daughter remembers

she met a man that year

who stood against a surly mob

and fought for what seemed fair.

Walking Bandit.

A haibun.

At three pm Bandit yips to remind me it's walk time. We careen the first block, I free wheel on my gopher, using one dog power. We slow to a canter past squatter pigeons settled like smooth stones on the grass. Geese hiss as we pass, geeking their necks and flapping wings. In the long grass near the water tanks a gray kangaroo stretches and scratches his belly in the sun, limpid eyes watching us as we turn towards home through a flock of fearless Happy Jacks. Deep shadows lengthen, warm winter sun sinks lower.

Brisk breezes herald night.

Another Weekend

After one hectic week. I don't know where it went, but it sure has gone. I started my newsletter again and this week I put the second edition out. The town has been pretty ansti lately and I decided better communication was again needed. This second edition was certainly talked about - people were asking for it before I'd finished it. I guess that is a sign that they find it interesting. Naturally there were negative comments, but you can't please everyone. I certainly can't anyway. The cat killer has taken another cat. I do miss her, she was such a friendly cat, loved everyone - unfortunately. There is no way we can keep cats caged here. Houses are too open, and husbands too forgetful ;-) Bandit, our dog misses her too, as she used to pep up the pace on our walks. We and Them. A small township's divided, We aren't speaking again! They feel they are God's chosen - what's that say for Them? We stir pots in the kitchen huddle in a gossip's conclave, dream of a life without Them, isolation makes people brave. Burdens are layered upon Them, slandered by whispered word so, ignorant of misdemeanour, no disclaimer is heard. Festering grudges and hatred it's how all wars begin. Fueding fuels fragile egos - there's no way We or Them win. Frances Mackay (c) 19-7-08

Another Monday Morning

An amazing morning. Coolish when we first got up, but we started shedding clothes early. All my wash is done and I plan a day's writing. Autumn is the best season here and the birds all tell us so. I haven't felt so energetic for months. Yesterday was Mother's Day. A lovely day of relaxing. I watched my favourite shows and gardened for awhile, as my husband Frank, watched the car racing. I'm not a fan, a bit noisy for my blood. The photo is a new hibiscus that has just flowered. They grow well here and my son, Ken, gave me another hibiscus for Mum's Day. That's eight I have now. They flower all year around so will keep a bit of colour in the garden. Last night I listened to bats fighting in the mango trees and was worried that they were going to settle here the way they did a few years ago. Then there were thousands. So bad was the smell and noise from them that we were ready to vacate the place. They were here for months and only left when the first good rain came for the summer. Fortunately, no more have arrived so I gather they were disturbed when the new next door neighbours began cleaning up their yard. Guess we'll get a few unwanted guests in the next few weeks as resident snakes and rats are routed. Haven't done much writing lately. Too many other things demanding my attention (or am I procrastinating?). I get great ideas around four am. but am too lazy to write them down. Naturally, I forget them by the time I settle down to commit them to paper. All those bits of lost treasure ;o)

Lost Gold.

At night ideas come darting like tiny bats through my dreams, elusive, tantalizing.

Or wake me with wonderous words buzzing like mosquitoes seeking tender flesh. They elude me at daybreak when virtual memory overloads and cyclonic lows minimize creativity.

Frances Mackay. 2007