The daytime sky chose to scowl darkly
all day, like an out-of-sorts bully
accustomed to having his way,
belligerent and swaggering,
intimidating hesitant souls not given
to self-confidence or asserting themselves.
We were not unduly impressed.
There are times when the wisest course
is simply to get on with things, ignore
the bully's threats when it seems
feasible to do so. And so, we did,
embarking on a woodland trail, there
exchanging assurances with unperturbed
residents of the green and thirsty arras.
An ever-more densely cloudburst
burdened sky preened its incipient power,
yet there were garden chores irresistibly
beckoning. Tomatoes, lusciously tempting
to the discriminating palette and palate.
And garden borders and beds grown
arrogant in displacing their neighbours.
All urgently in need of discipline, a
firm hand wielding spade and secateurs.
Soon, the work satisfactorily concluded,
a thunderous roll echoed, and lightning
offered brief brilliance in the gathering
gloom. Gathering together startled
companion dog and gardening tools, we
made haste to depart the scene.
Brief but immensely satisfying; the
mission to restore a semblance of
polite order to the established structure
and glowing colour of the garden well
accomplished, we abandoned the garden
to a welcomed draught. By all means
let the voluminous showers descend!
The humped ghosts
of yesterday
peer through the
dim gloom
of night
edging into day
snow falling
thick as a
lover's promises
an incandescent halo
glimmering from
light standards
a refraction
stippling
the snow
reflecting the
barely limned moon
moving serenely
through overcast
as deep
as a rejected lover's
thoughts.
Tough is as tough does. The
elderly are no more helpless than
the young, setting out to make their
mark in the history of their lives.
Just as the value of the data
extracted relates to the input,
so too does one reap the benefits
at closure of what and how life
has been valued, lived, prioritized.
It is a rare courtesy to witness a
frail-appearing elderly man
chivalrously move toward giving
assistance to a female stranger of
like vintage, peer to peer, as coevals
having shared some manifestations
of an earlier social contract.
It is instructive to see the bored
disinterest of a young man
standing by, and the amazed
bemusement of an onlooking young
woman. The scenario, played out in
a local supermarket, where the
silver-haired woman stooped
to heave a 10-kilogram flour sack
from cart to check-out counter.
A voice behind her spoke: "Here, let
me get that for you". She straightened
to regard the elderly man and,
smiling, responded: "Thank you,
but I'm stronger than I appear",
as she resumed her action
and lifted the bag as intended.
Turning, to again thank the
helpful-minded stranger, a stricken
look crossed her face, noting the
man's two items. She apologized for
not inviting him through before her.
He, pleased no end, demurred and the
young in line behind them, blinked.
The sky, heavy with clouds, some
slate-dark, others silver-white and
gossamer-threaded, afloat in a vast
ocean of blue, did not appear as
particularly threatening, but rather
as an invitation to venture under its
offerings of both sun and shade,
breeze-moderated and pleasant.
Spruce and pine have released their
sappy gum loaded into their late
summer dropped cones. Foraging
forest creatures have begun the ritual
of fall storage, shuttling seeds into
sustaining caches long before winter
hints at its inevitable arrival.
Water striders and dragonflies
skate the surface of the ravine's
heat-diminished creek. A brilliant
red streak slips among hemlock
branches as a cardinal's high, sweet
pitch is heard. Cue for a long, sullen
rolling threat from above as the blue
is suddenly consumed by a mass
of darkly-banked clouds.
Lightning streaks across the
landscape, and concerned gazes
turn skyward, shrug as the mass
moves off imperiously, sparing the
forest, and us, as dimmer echoes
of thunder drift their intent elsewhere
down the long forested valley.
Sunlight returns to send its brilliant
shafts to illuminate jewel weed and
asters, goldenrod and fleabane. A
woodpecker's staccato thrumming
punctuates the voices of chickadees
and nuthatches. Sudden wind-shifts
haul back dense clouds and darkness
overcomes as thunder overhead heralds
the imminence of a dousing storm.
At three-score years, ten - and more
suddenly all those shallow illusions of
defying the years have dissipated,
collapsed, vanished, to reflect the
reality of presence as it is, not as
cherished facade. Never shy about
divulging my age, accustomed to
hearing the inevitable, gratifying
expressions of disbelief, for me
vanity had always seemed to triumph.
A busy, rewarding, sometimes
troubling few years of celebrating
life, occupying ourselves collaboratively,
coping with exterior assaults on health
and equanimity, complacency still
reigned, leaving scant time for
contemplating the passing years.
For they do pass, slipping from the
present to faded memory of times past,
seeking no one's assent. Then, a series
of spontaneous frontal close-ups with a
discreetly-used digital camera which
later viewing offended with its grotesque
and ego-assaulting verisimilitude.
Gaze fixed on the computer screen, one
image following on the other of a ghastly
parchment-furrowed face burdened with
years of concern, the inclination to smile
forgotten. Those faded eyes once deeply dark
and lively, now shallow pools over deep ponds
of forgotten distress. Below the entrenched
folds, taut, thin lips, sagging chin topped by
lifeless grey hair. Whose is that pained visage?
I do, you know, plant them, after all.
Using my aesthetic to determine
which plants would complement
one another. Imagining maturity,
spread, natural consanguinity,
colours and shades, formation - all
to visualize with a degree of accuracy
the final bouquet that will piquantly
present in our finished garden.
Full potential achieved, we then
satiate our appetite to view the
luscious beauty of their multi-petalled
exuberances, their obvious delight in
themselves nestled within the confines
of a garden bed, or border, or a
garden urn of classical design, or a
rude clay pot with no pretensions of
rivalling in beauteous, bountiful
appeal the flowers they so host.
A sour-minded cynic might remind
the gardener that after all, it is nature
to whom the kudos are owed, place
into perspective one's self-congratulatory
bragging of that special eye, the hours
devoted, the dedicated, pleasurable
retreat. I decline, however, to retire pride,
rendering all credit to the cultivated
plants, the season's opportunities,
ample sun and gentle rain.
Yet the tilling of the soil, its composting
enrichment, the storing overwinter of
corms and bulbs, heeding spring's
forgiving temperatures for seed
germination, careful and tender
planting, the nurturance to supplement
moisture, defend from insect and mould
infestations amply represent my investment.
The mature garden my prized reward.
They refuse to be diverted from their purpose,
recklessly seeking liberties they have never
enjoyed, foolishly believing this to represent
their basic human rights. What absurdity;
whatever gave them that spur to spurn the
legitimacy of their serene and regal ruler?
Tyrant though he is, he is their tyrant, inheriting
their future, to steer them unerringly in the very
direction his father took them to; what right to
presume as they do and demand respect?
In with the tanks, the regime's response
to peaceful protest requesting rights.
Sharp-shooters posted strategically
make short and accurate work of the
rally organizers. Those who exhibit the
brazen temerity and the tenacity to attend
rebel funerals pay dearly as their sombre
procession is bombed, strafed from above.
The muezzin calls to Friday night prayers.
Mosque-emerging faithful march in
ardent resolution to face down their
tormentors in a traditional Ramadan
ceremonial of defiance. From the seas,
their dictator's naval flotillas shell port
cities and Mediterranean waterfronts.
The message absolute: disperse, accept,
obey, for the army, navy and air force
will remain deployed in deadly opposition
to those who question the authority of
the state, sacrificing unarmed civilians,
children, the elderly, on the funeral pyre
of victory and strength of arms over revolt.
