my father sat in a pool
of mid-morning sunshine
on the raised patio
overlooking the garden
an open book in his lap
the dog asleep at his side
the lightest of clouds
decorating the horizon
and a whisper of leaves
his only distraction

as i rushed to the kitchen
for a hastily made
better-than-nothing version
of a flat white
that i wouldn't even enjoy
only ten minutes to spare
before yet another meeting
i paused for a moment
to take in this scene
resplendent as he was
peacefully present
behind the radiance
of diaphanous lace
breeze-rippled curtains
suffused with sunlight

a pertinent reminder
of something which
i didn't have time
to consider

caught off guard
by yet another downpour
unprepared again
he could shelter
from the torrent
tormenting
and tempestuous
beneath the hung branches
of this laden tree
overreaching
beyond its means
but he knows
it cannot keep him dry
for as long as
he might need
from bough to branch
to leaf and bud
down the back of his neck
through layer upon layer
soon sodden and soiled
those discomforting drips
will expose that
which he didn't want
exposed

as out of character as
it may have seemed;
i still cried
       like a ******* child

the protea magnifica
or queen protea
as it is also known
is a south african flower
of which until recently
i was shamefully unaware
a sprawling shrub
of varying height
dependent upon
influences of its growth
but a hardy plant
nonetheless
able to survive
and to thrive
under the starkest
of conditions and habitats
its flower is not delicate
like many others
but a symbol of survival
of resilience and growth
its boldest of blooms
an array of brightest hues
sending a message
of strength and power
courage and hope
yet the tightly held
closed cup of its petals
suggests a reluctance
to be noticed
an uncertainty
of it's own true beauty
perhaps in comparison
to its kingly namesake

she waited
discreetly checked the time
continued to wait
patiently and impatiently
flashing a smile
at what felt like
appropriate moments
a stunted laugh
or an "oh"
"really" or "yeah"
if she felt
she'd been wordlessly
quiet for too long
hours had been lost
to the smallest of talk
the bane of
real conversation
of truly meeting a person
all that effort
of getting ready
the makeup
meticulously applied
the hair
styled and restyled
the outfit
chosen then doubted
then changed
to be put on again
all of that
for this

"horrible bird"
she called it
telling of how
she had watched
a crow pluck
and pry at
its weakened prey
while perched upon
the bird bath
outside her window
at the garden's edge
despite this sternest
of lessons
nature at its most fickle
she still sits
in her comfy chair
looking out
over a bank of flowers
buoyant in bloom
enjoying the sight
of wagtail
bunting and finch
alighting on the stone plinth
pompous and preening
refreshing themselves
admiring the plumage
of their reflection
before returning once more
to wing and wind

my eyes are drawn
to two seagulls
perched contentedly on
a ****-caked lamp post
nothing decorative
lacking flourish or accent
a simple narrowing pole
coloured inexplicably green
with gently domed cowls
that gulls and pigeons
seemingly frequent
marred by a combination
of cream brown white
for all i know
it could be
their own faeces
in which they stand
or it could be
weathered and aged
built up and dried in place
for days
for months
for years
perhaps even decades
never to return
to untarnished days
perhaps if the bulb blew
or the lamp failed completely
it might be restored
while it is repaired
but there is no
guarantee of that
and yet the birds
could not care less
they'll pay no heed
to that which is less
than perfection
treating this evidently
well-favoured resting place
the same as they would
an unmarred branch
protected amongst tree tops
or a dainty bird-bath
amidst the flowers
of someone's quaint garden