Happy three quarter time, Max! That's 75% of a QB telegram.
I like the cypress hedges being 'darkly protective' in your snap. But 'depressing depressions'!
The beginning of your poem reminded me of Elizabeth Bishop. The art of losing isn't hard to master wasn't it?
Losing your way perhaps, either deliberately or not.
The long goodbye continues for my fatherinlaw down here at Coronet Bay. Yesterday a stroke felled him and is
he is now in palliative care at Wonthaggi hospital. He motioned, early on, for a piece of paper and scawled on it,
not a request but an observation: 'Now, I am left handed.'
Cheers,
Bill
On Wed, Jun 13th, 2012 at 6:26 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Two Ways Home
>
> Taking the scenic route in the dark
> isn't as dumb as it may seem.
>
> It may be slower, more winding,
> even a little less safe,
>
> but knowing it well,
> driving up those hills,
>
> eyes focussed on what
> the headlights pick out,
>
> you bring to mind what
> you've seen often well-lit,
>
> and that's always handsome -
> the vineyards, whatever season,
>
> the old aqueduct that connected
> the high valley lake
>
> with the town when it was young;
> the cypress windbreaks always
>
> darkly protective, the pasture
> hollows whether flooded or
>
> in recent years parched -
> depressing depressions! -
>
> now green again, grazed on
> by a new set of lambs;
>
> young tree plantations
> speaking of trust in a future
>
> moist enough for growth;
> the cemetery rectangle with
>
> monuments - every degree
> of cost and vanity;
>
> the recent subdivision's
> new street lights and house-lights
>
> still with gaps awaiting builders.
> You sigh: progress -
>
> remember that lovely farm? -
> as if cows are preferable
>
> to humans. Drive on home,
> you live where orchards
>
> flourished once, humans
> flourish now, fed from farms
>
> further away. The straight drive
> home would have stuck to highways
>
> dense with business
> almost without cease.
>
> Here's hoping the long-haul drivers
> also have an eye for the vineyards,
>
> the bush that burned
> and now renews itself,
>
> the hills, the hourly-changing sky,
> and right now that new moon up high.
>
>
> Max Richards (75 today, 13 June)
>
>
>
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