Kit Kelen #363 - days of Christmas

363

days of Christmas

we rented a little place

between Christmas and New Year

tides perfect for wading there

and riding in without a board

of course one had to watch out

for the dumpers, the rips

sand in the pants de rigeur

it was still the longest day

all under-hat and breeze beholden

a sun might be severe or mild

made silhouettes of branches, birds

or you could float away

some clothing was compulsory

at certain hours and thongs

cause sand was hot

when the wind died down

news altogether ceased

no planes fell, they kept on flying

combatants must have thought better of wars

the year was already chocka

and further information could not penetrate the skull

there was still music for a radio

ethereal immortal

as all who live the longest day

my word

the texts that came in then

were only party invitations

nor would they ever expire

because tonight is always coming

day goes on all hours

I wouldn't call it exactly a shack

the garden made of afternoon

my great novel was underway

as brought on by beer

we lived in an esky

I tell no lies

on leftovers

and all our spoons were the runcible kind

yes I was painting a picture too

and under the Bong Tree

jigs, gavottes

nameless twirls for feeling

not a piggy-wig to market then

quick wickets when play resumes

everything tending to opera

who could tire of totem tennis

or bowls or shuttlecock or quoits?

work?!

don't make me laugh

slavery was long abolished!

or maybe in America someone making cars

more fool them

we just sunk further in the lawn, the lounge

there was the odd arduous journey

lilo to hammock, that sort of thing

then laughter dissolved into fits

more ice!

certain howevers were hanging about

(things set adrift come awash)

there was something I got my back into

a minor repair I suppose

result was a fucking Taj Mahal

(cool for the regions requiring shade)

a candle lit for somewhere cold

we thought the dark of them

a telescope for the brief bright blaze

but mainly a veranda's dreaming

of was-and-will-be

now the turkey is a fanciful beast

and lives in the fridge for days

on the hill in there (by the golden plains)

a celebrant of sorts

it's all eat me and drink me

guzzle me

and golly whiskers

something buzzed in through a hole

things bit

I'll admit

but neither were they greedy either

all sorts of things from other years

that's what you get between-times

a bird flew through

it was for guitar and piano

words wanting surely

found us there

they were playing our song

so we joined in

it was ping and pong

and we chased a ball

far off in the scrub

tea time when we got back

there was a year to come

everyone had a flash new diary

beautifully blank

out windows

we caught waves of ether

but they were harmless passing

a kind of cherry liqueur waft still

we lost count in days of Christmas

like a birthday after

goes on for as long as distraction lets

(and further than you can count)

between 'Medina' and 'Dun Romin'

'Languorous' we named the shack

as if it were something clever Scottish

accordion up in the attic

kookaburra sits on the wire

Bush Week

you might have called it

and a christening was daily expected

it was sixpence of chips

down at the shops

and there were fizzy drinks too

pink champagne (kids' lemonade)

gum leaves everywhere about

and trust me, friends,

we're all still there

if you'll just find the time