Day: July 18, 2015

Café Poet at Muse Gallery

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Muse G

It is always great to find a congenial place in which to write. Too easy, if at home, to spend time doing the domestic tasks that return, week after week. The washing, the tidying, the ironing…

Writing tends to take last priority.

Recently I heard about Muse Gallery opening at Castle Hill, so I went along to see the work of local artists on display. Tucked away in an industrial estate, in a warehouse space transformed by Mary Louise into a vibrant gallery, I knew instantly that this was a place to which I would return. When I learnt that there was a café opening in the gallery, I was hooked. An artist and wordsmith herself, Mary Louise has generously allowed me to take on the role of Café Poet.

I am looking forward to many hours enjoying the work of  our local visual artists, sipping a coffee, and scribbling away.

Haibun

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 wisteria

Tending to the Miraculous

I haven’t watered the garden for more than a year. I take water restrictions seriously. I have not dobbed in the neighbours who water their lawns in the dark of night; I have not installed a rain water tank. I have just let the garden ‘be’.

Dark pink daisies by the letter box erupted first. A crowd of round, dense cerise heads watching me as I look for letters. Someone next door has pruned the buds from my star jasmine. I try not to let the anger rise. I’d been looking forward to the white star petals. I carry two bills and a writers’ newsletter across moss-rimmed bricks up the drive. Violets on long, vigorous stems emerge from every crevice of the rockery. Twisted vines of purple sarsaparilla cover the native frangipani. Lillipilli berries cluster amongst glossy rippled leaves.

After a weekend away we arrive home to a burst of yellow—freesias are out, all across the lawn, under the budding maple tree, amongst the azaleas which have never looked so well. I make smelly posies to fill the house with their grandma fragrance.

Today the lavender heads are opening and a flush of roses revel in unexpected spring rain. The strident tones of TV politicians denounce the other side, watering their crop of terror. I look at my miracle garden and wonder at the resilience of spring—someone, somewhere, is tending the garden.

spring rain
the bowed head
of the peace rose

 Julie Thorndyke

First published Contemporary Haibun Online  December 2006, vol 2 no 4

© Julie Thorndyke 2015. All rights reserved.