At Fortrose

In the morning a resident came onto the domain
with his Shetland pony and its fortnight-old foal –
all frisk, investigation,
chewing my knuckles. 

In the evening we did the cliché
beach stroll, clambered over rocks,
watched the lazy river and the
lackadaisical sea slide
dance-wise in and through each other. 

The sun, slowing down for the day,
slid satisfyingly into the sea,
siphoning long soft rays through 
clouds. Cliché, cliché. But clichés,
even clichés, disrupt the heart.

From 1993

Fortrose is a locality on the southernmost coast of the South Island of New Zealand. It's within the area known as the Catlins. 

Photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

One of those pretty awful poems

On Summer mornings the house can breathe

And though when we open windows wide

The flies arrive and drive their buzzing bodies

Hither thither helter skelter, the house still takes in

Gulps of air, as though in prescience aware of

Long-closed windows come Winter. 

                        The breathing river flows from front to

Back, and cleans the slate of all the un-Spring-cleaned

Detritus.  At least in my mind’s eye that’s how it goes.

A little breeze can sometimes blow and slam the doors,

Rattle windows, fling the curtains, push a toothbrush off the

Sill, drop it into baths (or toilet bowls).

For some reason this poem (written a few years ago) was listed in my files as 'One of those pretty awful poems.'   I'm not sure I entirely agree with myself.  

Flash Fiction

Running and Waiting

The rhododendron, paler than white, leans in the heat towards the path which is sunk below the road. The glistening heat has melted the rhododendron petals off the branches; they settle as browning water lilies in the grass. But the grass doesn’t pour down towards the path because it isn’t water.

The path is a deep dip, so that a child can race with her dog down one side and make it up the other before running out of puff.

The child runs down the path, her knots of knees pumping past faster than the eye can grasp. There is a splash, but this isn’t water. The dog pulls on the lead and drags the child, strains to move forward. The child’s grazed knees bleed in rivulets. She pushes herself upwards, stands, sobs for a moment.

Calls to the dog. Calls the dog names.The dog sits on the hot pavement, indifferent. English is not his first language.

The girl dabs at her knees with a tissue: the heat of the sun is already drying the rivulets of blood. The dog waits, as dogs do. The pavement is warm. Waiting isn’t difficult. Boredom is not in his experience, or vocabulary.

The grazes sting in the heat. The child brushes the stings aside in her mind. Self-pity is not in her experience, or vocabulary.

This story first appeared online in the February 2012 Flash Frontier anthology: Heat.