Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Kit Kelen #363 - days of Christmas

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?

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


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