Autumn Gold

England

Australia

We have just returned from a tour of Australia's Murray-Darling River area. Bowling along in the tour coach I was constantly reminded of the England of my youth, and the Autumn colours in particular. This was odd, because my old country was damp; my new country, Australia, is, for the most part, dry. Yet the gold-green-shadowy look was very nostalgic.

My illustrations are both enhanced. The English harvest is seen through an artist's eye (and reflects my dream-time.) The Australian drought is photographed at sunset, so the gold is intensified.

 Yet both illustrations capture my mood.

Note: the Murray-Darling area has not had 'good rains' since 1993!

AUTUMN GOLD

In the damp domain where I was born

We always welcomed-in the corn.

It came and gilded everyone,

An echo of the summer sun.

The trees, still dark, though Autumn-tinted,

At a bleak and bitter Winter hinted;

Their shadows, lovely to behold,

Strewed grey-green on the corn's rich gold.

The trees so dark, the fields so bright;

They made a most enchanting sight.

*

Now, in my chosen Promised Land,

The same gold spreads on every hand.

Dry grass recalls the golden sheaves

And these trees will not lose their leaves.

The dryness brings a sense of dread;

'Drought' is a word that's best not said.

Folk take no pleasure from the scene

And yearn for farms awash with green.

Passers-by see suffering cattle,

Weary from their up-hill battle.

This glorious gold brings, with it, pain,

As a nation waits and waits for rain.

*

And yet, and yet, there lingers still

Something of that childhood thrill.

The trees, the shadows and the gold

Recall for me the days of old.

I sorrow, yet, with clarity,

I recall the joys that used to be.

*

The trees so dark, the fields so bright

Still make a most enchanting sight.

*

2. My Midriff!

Day two and I'm in reflective mood. In my youth I yearned for perfection. As you can see, I never achieved it! But now, in my old age, I can rejoice at Life's delicious little bonuses. The little triumph of which I write, here, is a secret pleasure!

MY MIDRIFF

I'll never have a mottled midriff.

My diaphragm is white as snow.

For I never wore a brief bikini

In the days of long ago.

There were huzzies who displayed their glory

With a little strip of this or that.

Whose bosoms were all small and cheeky

And whose stomachs were completely flat.

How I envied them their long tanned bodies,

As they glistened and they baked and boiled!

While admiring men hovered round them

Making certain that each limb was oiled.

Every one of them was so appealing.

Their bikinis were so ......... almost-there,

And the sun shone down on every midriff

As it showed itself all taut and bare.

And their midriffs glowed a honey colour

With a healthy, oh so sexy shine.

While one unhappy little midriff

Was covered and that was mine!

I could say I was shy and modest,

I could say that my thoughts were pure,

I could say I was saving my beauty

For a love that would endure.

I could say that I wasn't jealous

I could say that I didn't care.

I could say when they bared their midriffs

That I didn't turn a hair!

But, would you believe my story?

Or would you merely snort,

Knowing that I was freckly

And plumpish and dull and short.

How I longed to be oiled and worshipped!

How I yearned to be tanned and lean,

But my midriff was rather flabby

Not the sort that should be seen!

So I wore a neat little one-piece,

Shirr-elastic was the craze.

And I kept my podge of a midriff

Away from the public gaze.

Now I see them when I'm out shopping,

Those goddesses of the past,

And I realise godess status

Isn't designed to last.

I can't see beneath their jumpers

Or their track-suits or their frocks

But I bet their glorious midriffs

Have taken some hard knocks.

I bet they're looking wrinkled

And mottled and past their best.

I bet they're secretly happy

That they're not displayed undressed!

The bathroom mirror reveals mine

Still a vague sort of untanned beige.

But I realise I was saving it

To enjoy in my old age!

It is Perfect, just like alabaster,

Still flabby but smoothly designed,

A little bit creased and dimpled

But innocent, young and unlined.

Whereas theirs are all freckled and wrinkly,

All mottled, a sun-scarred disgrace.........
If only I'd worn my swimsuit

Pulled right up over my face!