I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral
Comments
(Did you mean "our beds"?)
I hope your meetings went well and you did not have to lay in a bed that was unmade. And peeling potatoes can be very spiritual especially after one peels off part of ones finger. Sometimes pain does that to someone, by making one think if one really needs to be peeling so many potatoes.
Although I think that sign makes so much sense in that anytime one makes a left turn, one shoud make it with great care or it might be your last.
Thanks for playing with us for this weeks Theme Thursday while I know you are so busy.
God bless.
Mrsupole, it's been a shocking few weeks, work-wise.
Roddy, perhaps.