Archive for July, 2012|Monthly archive page

One Midsummer Night

The evening drinks the sun down,
a slow, smooth swallow
lingering on the tongue.
The light caresses the wildflowers,
stretches shadows for me to follow.
The sky is one long brushstroke.
I am so lucky.

The noble cows watch me roll past with indifference,
The lily pads wave me on.
This is the Ottawa Valley,
lush, well-worn, warmly welcoming.
I am on my way home from camping with Bonhomme,
a scant day and a half of splendour.
Hours of lugging and tugging,
planning and packing,
setting up and taking down,
all for a mere overnight stay.
I made this happen.

I remind myself of the delight on his face as he held a 6-foot grey ratsnake in his hands, courtesy of the park ranger,
as I make my eighth trip into the house carrying in gear,
weighing the cost of a precious vacation day from work.
There were blue-finned sunfish in the water this morning,
as the geese ate their breakfast of lawn nearby.
We kayaked over the same fish in the afternoon, Bonhomme proclaiming himself an expert paddler.
We discovered frogs the size of thumbnails,
saw centipedes curl and fireflies wink,
I remember as I resist the call of my lullaby tires.
We learned the four calls of the loon.
There was quiet colouring,
and noisy tent peg hammering,
hooting and tooting while walking in the middle of the carefee road.
It was worth it.

The half moon applauds me with its full belly
(knowing full well that I’ve been up before the sun),
for making memories,
for teaching one small boy how big it feels to be free.


Thunderstorm pudding

Outside, it was storming.
A summer storm like I’d not seen before,
the darkness of night descended upon the usually-bright afternoon.
Getting home soaking wet from daycare pick-up brought the storm inside,
threatening and thundering.
Tantrums, go-to-your-rooms,
clashes and crashes.
Dinner took too long.
The fish was a disaster.
The red chard was perfect, although not exactly appreciated by young palettes.
We filled up on tender beans and tiny potatoes instead.
I had the audacity to win at our boardgame after dinner,
sending one sore loser to the penalty box.
In retaliation, he proceeded to cover the floor of his room with toys.
This resulted in room-cleaning being added to the usual bed-getting-ready routine.
Amidst the storming, I made bread pudding.
Bubbling along to the decibels,
settling in burbles and sighs during book-reading.
Once boy-bedtime was finally achieved,
never had a stale baguette, forlorn victim of half-eaten Saturday lunch, looked so glorious.
Just like the day,
this concoction of bread, milk, rhubarb, raspberries and sundry was warm, wet, sticky.
Both bitter and sweet.
Crusty around the edges.
Earthy and spicy and unexpectedly smooth at times.
Melt-in-your-mouth goodness,
with the occasional jarring crunch,
a blanket warming my inside, complete with crumbs.
Smelling like home,
tasting like love.

1 Beach, 2 Hours, 3 Cousins

Wind-tossed hair,
red hot cheeks.
Sunscreen-glooey sanded limbs.
The gulls and children mimic each other.
Waves upon mud cakes,
topped with stick candles and riverweed icing.
Digging for shells with our toes,
rewarded with a heart-shaped rock.
Three yellow-lifejacketed ducklings bobbing.
Ice cream.
Oozing chins,
sticky sweet kisses.
Timeless sitting and listening to the wind,
slowly drying in the sun,
watching children play out of arm’s reach.
Something eases inside,
stretches its wings,
and takes off to the sound of screeching giggles.