Ten Forty Three am and the mist has cleared.
Family of wren’s bouncing on the sodden grassy slope. Feeding.
Their happiness is very evident.
A silent energy pervades the air.
Wandiligong, little valley of remnant Heritage Landscape.
My valley of memories.
Memories of a young painter and her lover.
Extracting the essence, its subtle curves, inhabited and not.
Canvas, paint and frosty mornings.
Burning paint to canvas.
Capturing a feeling called life.
Apples and old sheds,
Morses Creek, its hospitable banks ramble along,
Its pristine waters wait for no one.
Its happy as happy as the wren’s dancing on the grass.
I awoke this morning in my snowy white covers,
The light came in and I saw the mist on the mountain,
Rolling down like thin icing on a bumpy cake.
It kept rolling until it reached the valley floor.
Consolidated and rolled again in one united cloud,
Full of energy, robust, alive and purposeful.
The verandah where I sit is comfortable,
Attached to the house which is also comfortable.
Alone with memories.
My children grown with children of their own.
I feel blessed to have this time to embrace the silent energy of this place.
Can I really know the purpose of this valley of memories.
Can I really know the purpose of being alone to reflect,
Except to be creative to the end.
The happiness of wrens darting and chasing each other in a dance,
Brings back the memories so dear.
—27 January 2016