He’s in a Dash

Not yet a man, no longer child,

Benji sleeps, or he’s in a dash

Loved dearly, drives his mother wild

Forever hungry, needing cash.

Here, our breakfast, eaten, done.

And from my daughter, good morning wishes

She’s off to work and on the run –

“Last night your grandson did the dishes!”

Fixing stuff, he’s sharp, he’s quick.

And finding out just how stuff works

The Wifi’s down – “Oh just a tick.”

Once, that was me, now “Damn!” it irks

Swimming togs, ‘n socks ‘n towels,

His mind just flicks from now to next.

He’s become immune to mother’s growls –

And me, his Poppa? Amused ~ I’m not at all perplexed.

from Our Back Deck

The sunshade cloth has long been up

The setting up reminding me of the sailing ship days, the rigging I read about from borrowed books in my early teens – I have long since sailed into old age.

Contented pensioner-hood.

Shade cloth aloft, our back deck is still hot. It is our ‘summer seat’ for meals, visitors, that extra coffee.

It is from where I gaze across the back garden at jobs undone. But guilt sleeps in the summer heat.

From this back deck I look at individual plants, their bright, cheerful summer flowers, most of which I don’t know their names.

Nearby, quite prominently a light green display

“What is that?”

The reply is patient, clear, “It is a fennel seed head.”

Thence the contrasting sentiments on my social networks

“Great pic, but yuk!”

“Oh that makes a great herb for . . .”

Summer time

Coffee is drained. Shade cloth ‘n all pur back deck is hot.

Back to the unhurried pace of being a pensioner