The air hangs crisp in this lilting shadow of a day.
Towering nimbo cumulus cloud soars high in gigantic billowing columns, expanding dramatically against the bluest of blue skies.
Spring is here in New Zealand, the farmers are mowing hay and the corn is sprouting asunder in bright green rows on newly tilled, harrowed fields.
I sit here on the elevated porch in my favourite chair, sipping a cut glass tumbler of Bushmills Irish, (******* only).
Far below me, across tumbling hills of impossible green, the blue Tasman sea stretches out to a far horizon.
I can hear the rush of waterfalls in the native forest below me. Crystal clear water tumbling from the mountains rearing vertically behind the property. Water cascading over rugged, moss covered boulders, splashing noisily into dark pools, the ripples radiating out to the deep shadow of emerald fern clad banks.
Bright Azaliah's and rhododendron trees are flowering in profusion in the garden, shadows are lengthening on the acreage of lawn and blackbirds cavort energetically, plunging sharp beaks deep into the green, seeking plump worms to eat. Tui's are calling their lyrical tunes from the fringe of forest and a hint of mist runs a finger plume across the base of the adjacent, dark high volcanic peak.
The moment has a touch of beauty, the stillness of the air, the bite of evening chill, the filtered golden light of the lowering setting sun. The mellowness of the warming whisky .
A very special moment of solitude and quiet wonder, a time to ponder and celebrate this magical gift of life.
9 November 2023