Old friend, once lover,
sometime colleague in magic,
he exhorts the group he leads
to draw their weapons for battle
against the forces of evil.
He means in the etheric, but
I leave quietly, telling him
privately, ‘I can’t be part
of this. I make love, not war.'
My service provider’s
up to something.
I ask around.
Other customers concur.
Very slow service
all this week,
with no explanation
nor obvious reason.
Our irritation mounts.
We complain loudly
on social media –
when we’re able –
and commiserate together,
impotent and frustrated.
First world problems?
No less real.
When I note, on page 36,
that a certain culmination
took four seasons,
I know it’s right for me
to read this book slowly,
savouring and pondering
each poem’s delight,
its mystery.
The little painting I bought today,
from the bargain basket outside
the antique shop, isn’t labelled.
I’ll never know the artist's name, nor
the whereabouts of the place pictured.
I don’t even like landscapes, usually,
as much as abstracts. But it put me in mind
of Tasmania, where I grew up. Turned out
the woman behind the counter did too.
We reminisced long. Neither of us intends
to go back there to live; home is here now.
Nevertheless, we shared a nostalgia
only another Tasmanian would understand.
