The rain is comes down in big, soft drops, occasionally working up a gust of wind to toss the towering kanukas and kauris around. The sky is the colour of the letter Y, translucent and lonely, marred by a lost tropical parakeet, its bobbing blood-red head a shock on the eye.
My mother hated rainy days because it meant the children couldn’t go outside and play, which was of course, the same reason I hated rainy days as a child. Some days she’d break down and let us play in the rain, splash in puddles, turn our faces skyward and let the drops fall into our mouths, shrieking with laughter.
All right already with the poetry… setting up this blog is taking hours. Not that I mind. I spend too much time on the computer and this counts as quality time, productive time, meaningful time. What did I do today? Well, I spent several hours updating and developing my blog. ‘Your blog?’ Which opens up endless possibilities to express how wonderful my blog is and why everyone should be reading it.
I’m trying to figure out where to go with it. I thought perhaps I’d focus on the travel. Or the photography. Maybe put my film reviews and articles on line. And some of the stories I’ve written. And all the bloody essays. So I’m thinking that at least for the moment, I won’t worry about a focus – just let it flow and see what ends up coming out on top.
Yep, that old rain is still coming down. Think I’ll go drum up some vittles.