Rain Stream of Consciousness

It has rained nearly all day I woke up this morning pretty early and I heard a noise. At first I thought it wasn't rain but then I realised it was my eyes were shut they were stuck fast and I couldn't see the time on the radio clock. The later it was the more I didn't want it to be raining but I didn't know what time it was. It didn't matter what time it was then because later on when it was time to get up it was still raining.

It rained all morning and after lunch we wanted to go to the shops but it was raining although not very much we got ready to go but then I said no I don't want to go if it is raining. So we didn't go but ten minutes later ah! it stopped raining and the sun didn't exactly come out straight away but you could see that it was trying, if it makes sense to say that the sun can try.

So we were walking to the shops and it wasn't raining, it wasn't too bad and there were puddles on the ground and you could see reflections of the sky in the puddles they were of white clouds and blue streaks which were the blue bits of the sky. It was like these were the windows into another world underneath where we were walking and they had clouds and blue sky there as well but of course they were upside down and shiny like a mirror.

All the time we were out it wasn't raining but guess what when we got home it started raining straight away. That 's lucky I thought and then I thought it wasn't lucky there's nothing lucky about being inside when it's raining you're just inside that's all and some unlucky people might still be outside so you shouldn't gloat. And anyway I had to take out the bins and it was raining although it was lucky in a way because it wasn't raining hard.

Part of a Longer Walk

.....a bend in the Linear Park Trail. Here the river widens out and becomes coastal. The water reflects the flat sky. Horses graze on the grass plain right down to the water's edge, wearing coats which are green, purple, navy and sky blue.

Under the last bridge is a seascape and boat. We're walking towards the sea.

The sun is a hazy white disc behind grey knitted clouds. The river is brown with white patches. Pacific black ducks, ibis, herons and grebes appear and disappear. If the river is heading for the sea you wouldn't know it. The wind blows its ripples back the other way.

A bicycle comes up behind us. Ding. We meet people with dogs.

It's a Dutch landscape although I've never been to Holland. I have always thought this, about here.

We cross the road to the sand hills. We look left and right. We are looking for jetties. Jetties mean kiosks and kiosks mean snacks. But the jetties are too far away.

The sand is white, littered with weed. At the edge of the sea it dips suddenly and the sea is foreshortened and deep. It looks like a theatre set, with the waves moving sideways on pulleys.

We turn south. A seaweed ball follows us, blown by the wind. I turn around quickly and it stops.

My April Poem

What is your April poem? asked Pliny the Elder. When did you write it?

I wrote it ten years ago, in April, on a day such as yesterday, or today.

May I see it? asked Pliny.

I'll read it to you, I replied, and went to find my book.

It's called 'Like This One'

There are days in April
When the air is like water
Translucent and soft
With a warmth that is filtered
Through holes in the sun.

Days when the air is like cotton
Which lets in wafts
Of spice through the weave.

There are days in April
When the air is like memory
Connecting landscapes
Seasons and hemispheres
Decades apart.

That is very beautiful, said Pliny. And most appropriate, as you wrote it a decade ago.

I hadn't thought of that, I said.

Demise of Number 14

We've lived on this street for ten years now, approximately. No one's lived at number 14 for most of those.

We'd walk past in the evenings and see the setting sun reflected in the windows, which made it look like someone was inside.

But the broken blinds and flaking stucco walls, the cracking concrete and the unattended weeds, the ever growing collection of Messenger newspapers lying in the driveway, spoke of emptiness.

I've stared into those windows from the footpath, imagining some lonely person sitting in a darkened room inside, staring out, while their Messenger newspapers slowly turn to mush.

And their roses doggedly bloom, pink and red.

Now the house at number 14 has been pulled down. All that remains is a pile of rubble, and that too will soon be gone.

But for just a few days last week, when the house was still standing but the roof was gone, daylight poured in, illuminating the delicate lilac pink and lavender painted interior walls.