Sunday afternoon thoughts

Hung Out To Dry

Upon the clothesline
hang the whispers
of tomorrow’s hope,
the bedsheets from
the bed half-empty
interspersed with
graphic Ts and memories
of last August when we
walked the trails through
Prince Edward Island, and
fears that the world has
changed too much and
what we now take off
the line was not ours
to beginning with.



© May 2020

Mother's Day 2020

As always I think of my mother who passed away in 2006. And I wrote this for her.

Oh, Hello Mother 

For Mother’s Day 2020

It’s good you are not here
for you would worry. You’d call me
every day
to ask me how I am and
if the girls were fine and
if grocery store was busy and
what was out of stock. You’d call me
every day
to make sure I was eating well and ask
when was Garry was coming home again and
if I’d seen the news about the prices going up and
what we had for dinner. You’d call me
every day
to tell me what movie you’d watched and
who you’d played cribbage with and
how you enjoyed the visit to the gardens to
see the tulips and rhododendrons in bloom. You’d call me
every day
because you’re bored,
because you’re anxious,
because it’s all too much for you to handle.
It’s good you are not here to worry.


© May 2020

Every day writing is over but missed

April is over, but still the need to write every day is there. Like an addiction to slot machines or sleeping pills, but a much healthier desire. So is today's deposit.

The Peacock Blue Cashmere Sweater

that you bought me for Christmas still lies in the drawer where I put it on the 28th of December. I should have told you when I opened the beautifully wrapped gift from Sax Fifth Avenue that I find cashmere itchy, but I couldn’t, not with Mother there beaming with joy that all her family had flown to Vancouver this year. She would have made me feel guilty like she always does. I opened the drawer just this morning to get something warm to wear while I walk along the seawall with Uncle Bob and his dog Archie and saw it there grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat. Then I knew I had to write you and tell you the truth. We could never keep secrets from each other, could we? No, I don’t want to exchange or return it, because the colour reminds me of that painting we saw at the National Gallery when I visited you last August. Remember we sat on the room bench for hours and just stared at Christopher Pratt’s Newfoundland landscapes. Was that why you bought me such an expensive cashmere sweater? Then I’ll just drape it over my shoulders when I get cold and think back to that warm, sunny day we walked to Byward Market for tea and cakes and we talked about hopes and dreams, and reality.

© April 2020