Gentle morning

It’s a misty moisty morning
And the air is crisp and cool.
Looking out my window
I see children off to school.
Some are wearing raincoats,
Some don’t seem to care,
As the softly drops are nestling
Like jewels on their hair.
Silently I wish them
Well, along their way;
And hope the storms they meet in life
Are as gentle as today.


Silent Hurt

We each dress our wounds

in secret,

winding round them

tight bandages of silence;

lest they allow to seep

drops of hurt

that appear as grief;

perhaps infecting those who come

too near.

Do we do disservice

to those whose hands bear only soothing balm?

Misty Morn

I like the crisp cool mornings
that autumn days can bring,
With promise of a balmy day
to make my glad heart sing.

Today there was a morning fog,
though light as fairy mist,
I found the treasure that it brought
where the river had been kissed.

For all the beauty on it’s banks
had fallen and got wet.
The camera clicked, and clicked again,
So that I would not forget.

C's camera trial 1 (11)C's camera trial 1 (13)

Aprons on!

I spent time in the kitchen this morning; {you can see the results in the picture}.

I hadn’t had such a happily enjoyable time in there for quite awhile; things all seemed to go right and turn out well.

As I took off my apron I thought back to days gone by when aprons were worn almost always when kitchen duties called. Today it seems as if “working aprons” are rather “out of fashion”.


My mother and women of her day wore their aprons all day as their many home duties required harder work than we do today in our homes. Laundry was not as easy to do therefore it made more sense to wear an apron over the dress, the latter then would be able to be worn more days than if “unaproned”.


Meal preparation required the wood fuelled stove to be attended to, as well as the food prepared to cook in, or on, it. If a son had failed to fill the wood box before going to school, mother had to trip out to the wood heap to replenish the needed fuel.

Most of these stoves had no thermometer guide as to oven heat; women had to become proficient in opening the oven door, thrusting in a hand to feel the temp, and deciding if more fuel was needed to pump up the heat, or if the door needed to be left open a minute or so to decrease it. So cooking well was not just in the measuring, mixing, and making, but also in the art of correct heat for whatever the dish was that needed baking. The amazing thing is that so many women became excellent cooks using these tools.


I remember using a fuel stove at one time in my child-raising days, and still think that the food cooked in it was moister than that cooked in the electric oven I now use.

But I am grateful that I don’t need to nip outside to the woodheap to gather my fuel, nor gauge the heat of the oven, nor blacklead the lovely little stove sitting in the ingle, to keep it shining brightly.


Summer days did not enthral the user of the wood stove, as it not only heated it’s top where the cooking spaces were for the pots and pans, but it’s oven also; and the ensuing heat that radiated off those surfaces made the kitchen very hot and uncomfortable to work in. But for women of that time who managed their own homes, that was the norm.


A short while before my father was due home from work my mother would tidy her hair and change her apron for a clean one. This memory has stayed with me from that time until now, and I regard it as my mother’s way of wanting to be in a presentable state for her husband to come home to, even though they had been married for many years.


Looking back means I can learn many things about the people who filled my childhood and teen years, and see more clearly how they coped with hard tasks in less than ideal circumstances. Sometimes I need to take a look at myself and be sure that I remain grateful for all the conveniences in the modern household.


I took off my apron when I finished my kitchen chores today and the automatic washing machine will deal with it without me having to scrub it, boil it, and twice rinse it, before I can peg it on the clothes line.

How times have changed in doing kitchen chores, during the past eighty years!

What sort of changes will there be in the next century?Apron work

Happy Saturday

It wasn’t really any different,
Than the Saturday before,
But somehow things felt otherwise,
As though “Happy” held the floor.
Not that I usually entertain
“Sad” or even “Down”,
Nor that I’m always laughing
Like some hard working clown.
But Saturday felt different,
In some delightful way,
Though I didn’t understand it
It stayed like that all day.
So I did enjoyable things
That gave my heart a lift;
And counted “Happy Saturday”
As a special gift.
Happy Saturday

A painting done….A jigsaw completed….A fleece rug begun.

Changing seasons

{Because I hadn’t been well for a few days I almost missed the changing of the seasons here in the southern part of our beautiful little island of Tasmania. I was reminded of a poem I wrote some years ago about this, and which I still like.}

Lady in Waiting.
Lady Summer rose from sleep, and shook her golden tresses,
to claim the day before her, as she donned her flowery dresses.
But suddenly her hand was stayed, her eyes quite thoughtful grew,
for she heard a softened rustling, that was old, but somehow new.
She laid aside her gowns, then to the window sped,
and I am sure I heard her sigh,as I watched her droop her head.
I too peeped out the window, and there to my surprise,
I saw a maid whose laughing face, held merry, clear, brown eyes.
She swirled her skirts of many colours, as she spun in joyful dance,
And Lady Summer looked upon her, as one in dreadful trance.
Till quietly the dancer slowed, and to the window neared;
I wondered then just what it was that Golden Summer feared.
But Oh! I saw the maid’s brown hand commandingly extended
And realised quite startlingly, that Lady Summer’s reign had ended.
She curtsied low, then turned away, as she shut the window tight
The room was darkened suddenly, as if the day was night.
I stumbled out to seek the morn, that I knew had just begun;
I sought the warmth of yesterday but found no Summer’s sun.
Though coloured leaves came floating on a gentle, fragrant breeze,
and everywhere the brown-gold day, brought scenes just meant to please.
I drank deep of the mellow air, then felt the soft caress
of silken panels touching me, in the maiden’s coloured dress.
She hugged me quickly to her, I returned her sweet embrace;
for suddenly I recognised Dame Autumn’s gracious face.


Dianthus and seaside daisy

 Lady Summer


Dame Autumn