Once again, I didn’t sit on the Bench in Hibiscus Crescent. Inside the house, the people who had loved Susan were eating and yaaning and drinking. The weather was cool and wet and a little wild at times.
As I was leaving, I saw this Bench once more. The one I have seen a good few times over the last year. Just down from her house. On only one visit was she still strong enough that she could have walked down to the Bench. Now it is a truly empty bench for me. We didn’t get to Yaan near as much as we wanted to before the disease and the drugs attacked her brain and body.
Now, maybe we can Yaan.
Silver: Roberta Lowing
from SILVER by ROBERTA LOWING
What: You strap on headphones and crank up the volume.
Friday is here and I am home alone. Just the birds and me after the deep engagement with family and shattered routines. Eyes far ahead of myself. I have Classic FM radio on as well as Van Morrison and INTO THE MYSTIC. I am taking a look for MOONDANCE as well. My sister and I , well we were young in the 60s and 70s. She died on the night of the Full Moon last week. A Marvellous night for a Moondance. Right, that’s the two of them lined up.
“Our eyes far ahead of us, we move over hard ground the only way we know: our hearts follow, our minds follow, unable to resist the music in the slowly turning mists on the horizon.”
I woke to mists this morning. Down here on the dairy flats. Not the winter mists but the mists that signal a hot day coming in. Life at home is in disarray as it ought to be after such a thing. On the clothesline is one pair of swimming shorts, a TShirt and a one pair of undies. They don’t seem to be drying. Not quite. Holding onto the salted moistures. The grasses are overlong and one wheel fell off the lawnmower.
So I sit at the side window at my little desk and let my eyes see far ahead of me. Beyond the hard ground to where the music sings from “ the slowly turning mists on the horizon.”
A MARVELLOUS NIGHT FOR A MOONDANCE
ClassicFM is still powering beside me. On my ancient radio. The Poem is called SILVER. The one where I found those lines about slowly turning mists and hard ground and the music calling. Its an Australian poem. SILVER has brought many images to me this morning. I have long silver hair. Massed and messed and tangled. My sister – well she had lost her hair in the brutal treatments of the brutal diseases. We were girls when the 60s and 70s brought the Dropping Out and far eyes did see distant horizons. Our hair was long then and dark and we dressed in raw silk and wore sandals. We rode in mini mokes and lived in country houses. We took Lovers and bore children.
One comment sent me me this last week was from Chrissie who said “I’ll always remember you 2 as the 2 hippy chicks in urunga 🙂 in the good old days”
This morning, I sit at the side windows. I have the music on and the mists have completely risen and unmasked the Summertime Day. Seems to me the wraiths are with me. The horizon is not so far off as it once was and the music is rather clear. I hear again the old priest of Tumbulgum in his purple shirt reminding me that he and I heard the music of other spheres.
OUR HEARTS FOLLOW.
OUR MINDS FOLLOW.
To children in black dresses and mountain cities. To Old Places and Young People. It was indeed a Marvellous Night for a Moondance and now – INTO THE MYSTIC.
ONE WORD TO THE WISE – DON’T UNDERESTIMATE THE STORYTELLER.