David in Pen and Pics

Black, red beak and a beady eye
Almost hidden in the loquat tree
When I move so does he
Collecting crumbs left from morning tea

I built a bird feeder
Not left overs but healthy,
Expensive cat food.
Trust.

Yesterday into my living room.
Food? Looking for me?
Then ouldn’t find his way out.
I found him fluttering at the window.

He hopped down, walked about my feet
Back to the window
I shut doors and windows
Slowly, slowly

Wrapped my hands about him. No struggle.
Released from the balcony, a chirp of thank you.
Today hopping about my feet
Cat food, expensive, but. . .

Auckland family, “It’s gone on too long,
And when we can we’ll be up and gone!”
The young ones – don’t know where, I don’t know when.
But so good when we catch again.

Nods and muted smiles, our daily tasks
Obscured by muffled sounds and masks.

Clock forward, again in darkness waking,
Consoled by longer days and baking.
My partner, “Gee, I’m an hour slow,
I should have left an hour ago!”

Front porch in sun, the birds and me
The cat asleep, my cup of tea.

Morning walk, breakfast, dishes done.
One step, two steps, a rhythm best done
By feel rather than the count,
Connecting steps to the street above
And into sun. A friendly “Hi!” A local,
Masked, to me unrecognized. “Oh Hi!”
That unseen smile, it means a lot –
Covid Caution ~ then the tulips.

The stream is flowing high
The rock pools, popular in summer,
Cleared of leaves, branches,
And replaced with new twigs and branches.
Higher up the track, birdsong

Cuba St restaurant highly recommended, eager to visit and hungry. Neh. Opportunity smiles on the wanderer, the flaneur, with time on hand and in good spirits. Rarely do I visit Middle Eastern places. A steady trickle of hungry citizens unburdened by surplus cash. My dinner, a kebab excellent. Fresh greens, plenty of them, bolstered by a seasoned lamb filling. And the sauces were generously added as I talked to the owner, a cheerful fellow who slipped out of Iraq twenty years ago and is unafraid of day to day hard work.

Next time I visit Cuba St…

Time to go home. A stink Wellington day. Get up in the dark, Uber man arrives in strong wind. My e-ticket is unrecognised at the airport – so this now becomes somebody else’s problem and a calm uniform sorts it out. Sitting in tail end of the aircraft at the terminal we are bounced up and down in the wind. I am hoping for a fun takeoff – but it is totally well behavd and under control. We clear the wind scuffed Wellington Heads.

Leaving Wellington, no sighting of Mt Taranaki, cloud.

Land, my bag one of the first out, shuttle bus to Manukau, diddle around coz late, from seat upstairs in the bus to Thames.

Next day, interrupt sister sweeping drive. Cuppa tea, gossip, bikkies

Wellington Maritime Museum. Worst moment – having to sit myself down in a remote corner of the shop because of much walking and clambering up stairs. Not Age! No, not age. Best moment. Watching the young women behind the counter doing little dances. They had forgotten I was there. Until I applauded. But definitely caused laughter and brightened up a those quiet Museum moments.

Worth a visit. And quite timely with that elephantine barge stranded across the Suez.

The visit was much enhanced with my superb spatial awareness, holding Mr Google’s GPS the wrong way, and losing an argument with the ‘usually correct’ gender over The Quickest Route.

I got lost on my way home – in Unity Books. I have shelves of unread books. And shelves. So after “Just looking thank you, I have a large number of books,” I figured I’d buy a book, ‘Numbers Don’t Lie’. Vaclav Smil.

Important things when travelling. Timetables, knowing where you are and the shower. Getting the temperature right is a science. Not squirting water out the door helps. I always forget to read the bottles on the shower shelf. I mostly grab the most interesting shape – which is only partly visible, and give my hair a good old squirt. That squeezy bottle could be industrial strength Draino. But they all work.

Sparkling clean I leave the apartment and dodge the drizzle in the hunt for the Dixon St Deli. It is a grey day. Another bearded fellow (showered?) Perches happily outside reading the progress on the unblocking of the Suez Canal.

Large flat white. Friendly staff and a cheery wave when I leave ~ is this a good or a bad sign?

The bounce and pageantry is winding down. Cuba Street is slipping down to is busy streets, jostling crowds and zany shop doorways. I step out of a cafe and

The final glow of the evening in an Italian cafe. “I remember you from some years back.” – the owner. Motorscooters, Italian of course discussed. The scooter has hatched into an Italian motorbike.

Next day, Monday, the serious surge of traffic. And Wellington drizzle.

An afternoon wander.

The bouquinerie is buried with the above, and more of the above, more ancient than modern. A bloke with his bestest anarchic clothes has been poured into a chair in the corner. He has that look of the bookshop ‘Do not disturb’. Maybe he never leaves that chair. Another, younger and more vital fellow eagerly gnaws his way into some sort of convenient pay and scamper delicacy.

Dark, firm, slightly shaky lettering grimly announces the hideous outcomes for those parchment pilferers who become engraved for evermore on The Security Camera. All the forces of Satan plus the Cuba Street Constabulary are watching, watching and waiting.

Books, side by side, neighbours for how long ~ are silent as I brightly thank the anarchist and I slip to the Wellington drizzle.