Thursday, September 18, 2014

Our Grace

The world has had some remarkable Graces. Princess Grace, charming, beautiful and dignified, comes to mind immediately. Gracie Fields sung encouragement into the hearts of troops during World War Two. Grace means pleasing, beautiful, kind and merciful. This tricky pregnancy has also been a journey of grace. And here she is... Our Gracie. Jethro was  overwhelmed. He immediately began to teach her to talk. Cath looked remarkably chipper and was ordering tomorrow's meals when we arrived. 
Ryan and I are mightily relieved. We are all grateful.

Sunday, September 14, 2014


‘Nasturtiums’ - For Karin

Once you picked a fistful of nasturtiums
Rambling wild along the banks of the Breede river
They filled the mouth of a brown stoneware jar
A flaming bunch: yellow, orange, red
Streaked with black
Encircled with round, veined leaves
So I would know they were for
You set them on the table next to my bed
I ate a flower nipped from its juicy stem
My tongue tasted
Colour, yellow-orange-red

1971, 2014

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Stepping straight into summer

In a day or two temperatures have risen from the early 20s to over 30 degrees C.  The door to my study has been flung open and the budgies' cage is again hanging under the thatch eaves. I know 
I should be doing the Grandma thing and teaching Jethro his letters but sitting in a deck chair watching him water plants, dogs and himself is more fun for us both. Summertime and the livin' is gonna be much easier!


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Letters from home

‘Dear everyone’

So Dad begun his letter dated 14 February 1991. It is written on tissue-thin, white pages without lines – Dad’s evenly spaced sentences guided by the template that came with each pad of Croxley’s airmail notepaper placed carefully beneath each transparent sheet. His opening line acknowledges the receipt of my letter written a week before and airmailed from Pretoria to Cape Town – the proof of our ongoing written conversation.

Of course, my parents and I took turns to make cross country calls weekly. But the calls never replaced the letters. A clinging, interfering, suffocating family circle? Not so, we all led strong, independent lives; exchanging letters was just a way of life to my parents. I can still see my mother writing letters at the mahogany writing desk in the corner of lounge, the blotting paper with its mysterious half-captured squiggles at the ready. Sunday nights she wrote in bed using an upturned tea tray as a desk: long weekly epistles in her small neat print to her sister, Eve, on the dusty drought-stricken farm outside Grahamstown, Joyce, her sister-in-law, in her neat suburban bungalow in Port Elizabeth, her never-to be-forgotten friends in East London, the great-aunts in England. She wrote thank-you notes to neighbours and letters of congratulation to nieces and nephews on their exam results or their selection to a provincial hockey team. She wrote letters to Mother Superior to explain my absence from school after yet another bout of tonsillitis. She wrote letters of condolence to the bereaved on special notepaper edged in black. “Jill’s had a new granddaughter or caught the flu or bumped her car or won a prize for her marmalade – I must write to her,” was Mom’s constant refrain.

Dad once retired, took to writing letters, a habit well learned during the war years. This particular letter has an encouraging word for each one of us. He worries over the conflict in Iraq and reminisces over his own bygone war. ‘There are no winners in a war”, he counsels. Mom’s new pills for Parkinson’s, he assures, are working wonders. His game of bowls is improving and - tell Ruth, he adds, he never forgets to feed the doves on the front lawn. He sends pats for the dogs and love to all.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014



Prompted by impulse
I enter the back garden
Lush in its green winter

A frog
Drifts on the surface of the
Too-blue pool
Black eyes stare
I grab the scoop
Angle the basket beneath
The pale belly and outstretched limbs
And forklift him to safety

He crouches motionless
On leaf litter
Among the ferns
A small cobblestone
Tarnished bronze, black and green

I return thrice
To find him
In the selfsame place

For the man-made hazard
The crass treachery which mars his kingdom
I beg his pardon
 Then he is gone
Vanished into shady hiding

I  marvel at the nudge
Which sent me
Mid-task, mid-afternoon
To rescue
A frog