Beata
In autumn sunshine, I walk up from the beach,
wave at Belinda, my barber, then the barista boys
at Café Crumb. I go on past the pizza joint on the corner –
its notice in the window: Apologies we will be closed
Friday to Monday. Our son Andrew is getting married.
Up Crag Road to the junction with Ocean Street,
turn left into Wattle Crescent and along to our place.
Home, I walk up the stairs into the open-plan light,
look out to sea, the sandy crescent I’ve just strolled,
there’s maybe a sail in sight or motor-boat scoring bubbles
across the blue towards the wooded farther shore,
the uneven line of the purple mountain backdrop.
Is that some weather coming in, I say.
Not forecast for a while yet, you reply.
Then we sit on the deck in the warmth,
above the flourishing garden you’ve made
with its berries, fruit trees, vegetables,
its roses for remembrance, flowers for joy.
And if six o’clock should come by, I’ll say,
Champagne or Chardonnay? Or maybe I’ll have a beer.
We’ll sit and sip our drinks, and one of us
will say how blessed are we? Chinking glasses,
we know some who would scoff: sentimental
or too simple or some other argument
for strangulation of all delight; we’ll smile
for a moment, try to forget the venal world
and banish the fear this loving place,
our little piece of paradise,
depends on someone else’s hell.
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