Rain ...

 

Waitakere Rain

Ernest Hemingway found rain to be
made of knowledge, experience
wine oil salt vinegar quince
bed early mornings nights days the sea
men women dogs hill and rich valley
the appearance and disappearance of sense
or trains on curved and straight tracks, hence
love honour and dishonour, a scent of infinity.
In my city the rain you get
is made of massive kauri trees, the call of forest birds
howling dark oceans and mangroved creeks.
I taste constancy, memory and yet
there’s the watery departure of words
from the thunder-black sand at Te Henga Beach.

Paula Green.

 

It was a good day ... !

It's your wairua journeying here to your turangawaewae... your spirit returning to the place you belong. nothing can keep you from being here... not physical time or distance love you.  can't wait to you are here in person though, sitting on my porch with a wine and laughter xxxxx

Pippa.

It was one of those awful days that became magnificent.

The infection on my back has healed but I had to wait until tonight to hear that from the doctor.  The story of why I was there is almost laughable, now that I'm on the other side of it all ... but that's for another day.  Perhaps.

Meanwhile I'm assisting in organising a symposium later this year.  The subject is so very dear to my heart.  We worked hard on it today, more to follow tomorrow.

Then I had a rather exciting project arrive in the mail tonight. 

And the words at the start of this post came from Pippa's Facebook post ... I had written to her back in New Zealand saying, ' It's you, you're working the magic of the land on me. I know the smells and the air and the views somehow.'

She has moved house and is posting photographs of the landscape she sees. 

Pippa replied with the words I posted first.  I think she's right and, one day, I hope to be home again.  Sitting out there on her porch, drinking red wines and telling tall stories ... like we have done through the years.