Late

In the end my father died of pain when my siblings and I were turning him to change his sheets. I was holding his wrists and I felt his pulse stop. The breath went out of him and his gaunt face released its tension and pain. He was suddenly at peace, suddenly relaxed and beautiful, his face like the face of a holy figure. Not a single one of us were saying, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” as Dylan Thomas urged his father. Our father had fought and he had lost.

into the room
with the late yellow light
voices of children

tree-at-toomba

Summer’s end

Belinda-Broughton-garden

The season has broken. Green thickens on the hills. It is always a relief, this turning from summer. It feels like spring, growth quickening new sprouts. Even my plum-tree has opened some flowers and the soil is soft and spongy.

damp earth
every footstep mutes
a cricket

autumn garden
the mice help themselves
to tomatoes

mutual respect
the inch ant and the tall man
do-si-do

lying
on the hillside
in the sun
it’s fairly obvious
that I am earth

Belinda-Broughton-hillside

 

.

Carpe Diem #427, Motoyama-ji (temple 70)

2D nature

Another gallery. Some of my paintings and drawings about nature.