Respite care rubs both ways

After making her coffee and lunch

in the hospice kitchen, I

find respite in my book of poems

which can hold a hand, an eye,

an ear, but won’t say how long

is a piece of string

or whether hope is the shape

imagined.

Despite losing weight and time

she seems today infused

with more wellness

which I once could define

but now find in the crumbs on a plate

in the focus of an eye

and in a way of being on a bed

without surrender.

Time brakes even

as it forces us both back

to the pace at which

fruit ripens, warm air rises

and for now the hours are ours to pass

with or without words

taking time out

where the rest is for life.

I don't know about this rain

I don’t know about this rain

that’s greyed my day with grainy

streaks and tricked me into a few

winks upright on the sofa

while I thought I was reading

Kevin Ireland’s last collection.

This rain is so set in his old ways

that I’ve been duped out of my

customary ride over the Brick Bay hill

or a paddle up the Matakana River

for coffee, leaving me with no effort

on which to lay blame for my torpor

only that hypnosis of repetition

of patter and trickle from dawn

to dark to dawn to dark, dreary

days punctuated by cups of tea

and the need to wee till it starts

to feel like this is the way it ends.

a haiku

one royal spoonbill

white against mud and mangrove

dull summer