November Rhyme # 11

I’m having to produce a 14-line stanza a day if I’m to meet my quota. This is a true story:

Rhyme #11: Intimations
Between the ATM and Woollies,
death brushed my shoulder, had a word.
The voice was not a schoolyard bully’s,
but soft, you’d almost say it purred:
‘You’ll lose all this, perhaps not tomorrow,
but time runs out – beg, steal or borrow
makes no difference, you’ll be gone
as silent as a babe unborn.’
A baby sucked juice from a bottle.
A tricep showed a red-inked rose.
The checkout chaps had wispy moes.
The air outside was drenched in wattle.
The dog snapped at a passing fly.
One day all this will say goodbye.

One response to “November Rhyme # 11

  1. I called in to-day to the Tamworth Electricity (?) Museum – chatting to volunteers who know my Kable Family story – whose appreciation of history easily matches my History teacher past – and threw back and forth reminiscences occasioned by the ancient washing machines and other electrical implements of the past – as well as stories of Tamworth’s long gone Festival of Light (the last was in 1965 – as I was farewelling Tamworth to head off to study at Sydney – the delight in being the first place in Australia with electrically-lit streets was palling) 50 years ago. Toting up the years – yes — how many more do I have left – already one-and-forty beyond the number of years “allocated” to my father – gone at a mere four-and-twenty! Intimations of our mortality indeed!

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