A Muse
Pulling up the roman blinds that peer sleepily into my back garden, I come upon the early morning sun kissing *Himself (the Macadamia Nut tree outside my window) on both cheeks, in the warmingly European manner. Left cheek, right cheek and left cheek again.
*Himself has seen me looking and blushes wildly. They’re so funny these men from the Pacific basin, so easily embarrassed by such public displays of affection. It’s such a pity really, the feigned resignation. The “oh gawd, let’s get this bit over and done with” and yet secretly, I’m sure they love it! What’s not to love?
For me, it’s the momentary sense of belonging to a wider family, especially if your own is scattered across the face of the globe. There’s something to be treasured about this timeless ritual of greeting.
There’s a stillness about the back garden this morning that’s eerie, still-life eerie. Like the artist has gone to fetch cafe au lait and asked her models not to move a leaf. It got me thinking that scene outside my window. A strange thought to some perhaps.
Do Muses still exist? My friend TB called me her muse once, I wasn’t sure what she meant then and I’m not sure even now. Hopefully, it means something good!
And by what other name might we know the modern-day Calliope? Clio? Erato? Euterpe? Melpomene? Polyhymnia? Thalia or Urania? Would you know? You see this is what happens on Friday mornings. Like that early morning sun-kissed embrace, shards of sunlit wonderings pass across my mind.
They wrap their arms around my dormant thoughts and suddenly as if from nowhere, heavenly scented violet-coloured flowers appear everywhere. And those bulbs of thoughts spring to life at so tender and so soft a touch.
It’s Friday here, a month from now it will be time to sow wildflower seeds. This morning I’m content to ready the soil, perhaps you’ll join me, you’re welcome and it will really be worth it come Spring. You’ll see.
