Special Edition: Irene Aarons

Irene Aarons

WATERWAY WONDER

Indolent waterways weave

along narrow canals,

soft-boiling bubbles circle fish-floats.

timeless brick-buildings 

watch the languid water

clearing pathways for barnacled boats,

on which busy shadows

flick images at random;

somnolent sailors navigate

in timeless perfection,

forever frozen, facing

designated destinations

mapped centuries ago.

I sit on the bank

in peaceful contemplation;

as the waterways of my mind

course through the tapestry of my life.

***

RIVER OF RECALL

On a perfect day I sit by the river

and conjure up a recollection,

a vision of my father, an inept fisherman.

He went to fish, more for company than reward.

I see the two of them, Henek and Shmuel,

from the old countries, laughing and talking,

a morning of reminiscences,

bound together in common experiences.

On a perfect day, I sit under a tree

and visualize the misty gray smoke,

curling up from their pipes

as they sit in companionable comfort.

There were no expectations,

no quarrels, just a feeling that

all was right within their world.

On a perfect day I send my eyes into the past;

I remember that time of quiet living;

I am aware that those days were then

 and even though I want to stay there

I haul myself back to the present.

On a perfect day I time-travel back

into ghost-places, where peace prevailed

and all was right within my world.

***

REFLECTIONS IN A GARDEN

My insignificance was magnified by an ant's journey across the path on which I was about

to walk.  I was mesmerised by the ant's dedication to his task.  It was obvious that his duty was to transport a piece of food to Head-quarters.  I wondered about the time-lapse

between leaving and returning; when he left, did he know he'd return or did he prepare his family for his death?  Was he aware of the dangers as he ventured forth?  He could be killed by a passing shoe or drowned in a water-puddle.  He could be swooped on and devoured; he faced danger on every level but he still forged ahead; triumphantly bearing his food.  He was not diverted, he kept to a set route.

I contemplated human behaviour and why we are always vacillating from path to path; why we set goals and promptly side-step them when the going gets tough?

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On a glorious day, I stood on a green grass-patch and spoke to Him.  Right off the bat, I asked myself why I assumed I was talking to a "Him"?  What if "Him" was a "Her" or a flowing mixture of persona?  Conditioning was the reason for gender choice but why?

That moment I really wanted to find out why there were so many evils around us; if "He" was all-seeing/all-hearing, why was the entire world on a path of destruction?  A reply stifled my thoughts;  "Foolishly, I gave humans the ability to make their own decisions and I have regretted that ever since."

So, we have brought this lousy state of affairs down onto our own heads, I coughed, blushed and went inside.

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Rowdy, raucous, ribald; rolling rapid squawks of rudeness as they fly.  The iconic

Hadeda clamours for attention in triplicate.  They seem to appear in trios and on this grey day, there they stood, majestically preening gun-metal grey feathers, impervious to the

soft drizzle landing on the pool water.  Why do Hadedas form groups of three?  Is it a quirk

of Nature or a designed set?  One male, two females ---- a small harem; an insurance

against a time of death; a spare wife ensuring survival of the species.

With purposeful struts, iridescent sheen glinting through the greyness, their prehistoric

beauty remains timeless.  Unfazed by humans, cats or dogs, they communicate via

tuneless hada-esque melodies,  lifting their ungainly bodies skywards and I am fascinated.

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As I was sweeping the patio, I got to musing about the bird feathers that litter the patio.  How many feathers and bits of fluff would it take to make another bird?  Then I started on the amount of seeds that the feathered beasties scatter everywhere and I wondered if a seed-tree  would manifest itself onto the patio?  At this point, I realised that I was muttering to myself and a sparrow was regarding me with a quizzical eye.  I went indoors and made tea (should have added a drop of Vodka) hoping to calm myself.  Then I worked on a crossword puzzle and deliberated no more.

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A Wagnerian Opera takes place in the garden.  The squalling is appalling and produced by Coco (the cat from Number 7) and a ginger UN-neutered male (I have named him Nigel), who has found that my garden is a smorgasbord of birds and insects; there is also a bird-bath which provides fresh water and Nigel thinks that he has found cat heaven.  Coco is determined to let Nigel know that this is his garden and he has no ticket to enter.  So the two main leads, Tenor and Baritone regale each other with harsh words and cruel cat-calls.

I am grateful that this opera does not feature a rollicking chorus as I have no idea whether the neighbours have a penchant for opera.  I rush outside, collect Coco, bring him inside and close the cat-flap.  The opera continues through the glass and I turn the volume up on my radio.

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Follow the evidence.  That's what I did the morning I woke up to dove feathers scattered all over my little garden patch.  I picked each one up carefully, gently, so as to grant them reverence in death.  I collected at least twenty proper feathers, it was hard to pick-up the fluffy bits.  I did a survey of the garden, would the culprit emerge?  Later that day, Coco came to the door; he did look a tad guilty, not surprising as he had fluff at the side of his mouth; mud on his paws and some spots of blood on his fur.  The serial killer had struck again, the case was solved.

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The rains fell steadily, the garden service would not arrive.  My garden rejoiced by blooming everywhere.  Three tomato plants became six overnight.  The Delicious Monster spread out and embraced the weedy lawn, it also gathered many other small plants under it's protection.  Weeds sprang up and produced dainty yellow flowers and the real grass grew exponentially.  As I watched this growing phenomenon, I noticed little white flags dotted around, waving wildly--- the sparrows were lost in the overgrowth and were surrendering.  Obviously my mind was being tricked by Nature, who always has a sense of humour.

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There was a party of pigeons on the roof of the house next door.  I counted ten in a row and wondered if they were plotting a coop(Coup de Grace), they sat orderly, neatly, all facing towards the West.  How long would they stay?  Suddenly, an harassment of Hadedas ( Endemic to South Africa ) came raucously flying past; the pigeons took off in a superb choreographed  ballet of wings.

 And the silence descended.  I looked towards another section of grass and was overjoyed to see that the sparrows were still pecking busily at possible crumbs.

Oh, the pleasure of the birds encircle me in a blessed warmth of life and song.

***

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Setu, May 2025