November • In Dispute of Happiness and Christmas Gifts.

This day last year was my launch at The Stanza for Three Pounds of Cells (and I really wish you’d buy one!) Thanks to Harry Gallagher and Mandy MacDonald who hosted. And my friend and editor Kathleen, travelled 3000 miles to be with me on that day and I loved her being here! And she got a great reception at The Stanza which was wonderful to see.  

And if you’d like a taste of that event: Here is a recording of Peter Lagan on lute, accompanying: A SONG OF SEALS

I didn’t enjoy the day itself. But that’s another story. I never enjoy special occasions. I am a bit of a Gilbert to everyone else’s Sullivan. Gilbert never attended performances — too stressful. In fact I wrote about this just last week — remembering.

In dispute of Happiness

Seems I was never built for happiness.
Each special moment causes me distress.
I like autumnal days when I can hide
away, close curtains, and I can’t abide
the party season’s yippee happee crowd
doing the conga, celebrating LOUD.

For every spike in life there is a dip
euphoria and sorrow, joined at hip,
are the twin banes that blight my mind and haunt
my dreams and make me stop before I start
any project that might win prize or praise
or hold me up to Nemesis’s gaze.

I am so paper-thin. I am threadbare.
I fracture easily. I am aware
of all the dangers happiness can bring.
For every love song there’s a dirge to sing.
On every special day a heartbreak stands
exacting any price plaudits demand.

I’ve never smiled a smile without the fear
that next day I will have to shed a tear.
Morbidity has stalked me all my life
as daughter first, as sister, friend, as wife.
Wish me calm passage and an even keel.
I was not made for happiness. I feel.

Oonah Joslin 2017

But yesterday I was at Wallingtom again and the sky was Winter blue and robins were everywhere guarding their little patch and I fely happy — happy because it was no special day. Happy because there was no pressure. Happy because I am having a good run of poems in Bewildering Stories

And The Canzonet is out ( to BUY) FREE POSTAGE IN UK. Or to BROWSE first And my local writer’s group has an anthology out  — The Scribblers’ Pen and Noel was with me and we were happy. In fact, the simpler life is, the happier I am. This is what I’ve found. So next year I am going to simplify life a bit further. Get rid of stuff. Cull some FB ‘friends’. Cut some spending. Destress. Get happy.

Samhain 2017 • Staying Spooky with a story

I tried to send “No Contest” to a competition but there was a problem with paying so I decided it should get read anyway for FREE and I doubt it would have won. So here it is. Enjoy.

No Contest

He turned quickly on hearing a crash and found the pumpkin staring at him. It was still wearing the face he’d just carved, but the expression was altered, and it was not alone. It seemed that every pumpkin in the patch had arrived at his door.
“How in the Devil’s name…” he began then stopped.
In the devil’s name… His words echoed back.
The door of his Last-a-Lifetime Security Shed had been ripped off its hinges. Kit automatically reached for one of his tools from the bench behind him. Instead of the sturdy wooden handle, his hand touched something wet and grainy.
“Ugh!” He shuddered. Looking down he saw the cold innards and seeds, the open womb of a pumpkin, but it smelled like blood. Hastily he wiped his hand on his apron.

In the lurid evening light he saw pumpkin faces. He recognised them, every single one, going back years. Competition after competition won. This shed had for years been his trophy house for countless certificates and rosettes, Best Fiery Face, five Bronze and Silver Pumpkin Medallions, The Golden Grin Pumpkin Award and the prestigious Gold Glow. The hobby had become an obsession, the obsession an addiction and the addiction a curse. He had to win and he’d sacrifice anything. He’d put his very soul into growing the best, and attaining the top prize. He tolerated no rivals.

“Remember me?”
The voice, mellow and dark, somehow familiar, chilled him, transfixed him. He turned, this time slowly. It couldn’t be.
“Hello, Kit. I see you’ve not changed a bit.”
Kit squinted in the diminishing light. It was indeed his former friend and one time arch rival, Jim but his head was a pumpkin head, the very same Kit had stolen from him, the award winning Golden Grin, now crowned with a halo of candlelight.
“Did I make a good mulch, Kit?” The pumpkin eyes scanned the trophies. God knows how many Kit had cheated him out of before the confrontation that final, fateful Hallows’ Eve. “Seems you did fairly well out of your bargain with Beelzebub. Hope it was worth it.”

It was dark except for glinting eyes that flickered all around.
“Pumpkindred,” said Jim in declamatory tone, “Members of the Patch, behold our tormentor! Kit Karver.”
A clamour of voices chorused, high and low, remonstrating, hissing, jeering. And Kit realised, in that moment, where his tools had gone. They were in the hands of those he’d fed, cared for, nurtured, killed and mutilated over decades. Medium saws, fine tooth saws, razor-edged scoops, small, medium and large carving loops for peeling rind, double sided sculpting tools, pokers, wheels and sharp, heavy duty drills, hole and circle punchers. Kit was a professional. He knew their use only too well.
“In the Devil’s name, Kit?”
Kit opened his mouth but found his voice would make no sound but a high squeak.
“Very well, pumpkins, let’s to work!”
His vocal chords were the first thing they cut.

I was very surprised 10 years ago to win a Horror Prize when I’d never written a Horror before, and was new to microfiction. But I love it! And I went on to win three years in a row. Unfortunately that story is no longer extant except in my livingroom.

Microhorror Winner 2007

Have a Happy Hallowe’en everyone. Stay Spooky!

Hubris and Nemesis • recorded at Pink Lane 2012

This was eye-watering yonks ago somewhere about 2012? At Pink Lane when I seemed to have a lot of confidence. I don’t go out much these days. I have only read once this year. So for those of you who want to know what I sound like:


Borrowed Thunder


Offunato’s Yesterday

October • Kissing Cassini Goodbye

Did I ever tell you about the time I was about to kiss Gregory Peck and my husband woke me up? Unforgivable or what? Okay so I dreamt last week that I met Mr Peck again and told him about the truncated dream and he said, ‘Well we’ll just have to rectify that,’ and kissed me. Only it was a kind of theatrical kiss, you know like with Ingrid Bergman, only I am no Ingrid Bergman.  Who is that model/actress who appears in adverts and looks a bit like Ingrid? Anyone know? I disgress!

Anyway this weekend I dreamt I was being kissed by Ryan Gosling — not so dashingly handsome as Gregory Peck but a much better kisser I have to say. So it’s official. I’m now a sad middle-aged woman! It’s like Queen Victoria and Abdul. Do all older women fancy younger men? I feel slightly ashamed of myself –slightly– but on the other hand the day we stop looking….  I liked the film very much, (saw a very handsome young man in the street just before we went in) prescient. Laughed, cried, was a bit surprised at times — it’s a ripping good yarn. We came out with all sorts of questions. Was the mother-in-law the second wife and did he just show Vicky the fatter one so she would be flattered? Did Victoria even know what gonorrhoea was, given that she could be a bit niaive? And what was the Victorian treatment for it? Probably something to do with mercury… Ate too much popcorn. Everyone should have a ‘munshi’ moment or two! I very much suspect Dame Judi Dench is more of a national treasure than Victoria ever was! I met her once in Cardiff — she didn’t kiss me though — just said hello.
For some unfathomable reason not all the famous people I meet kiss me! Their loss.

In September we said goodbye to Cassini and I watched the Horizon programme with a little sadness and a lot of interest. The scientists and engineers who had invested a career in the craft had also invested a lot of emotion. It was tangible. And when it was over I drafted a poem, my way of kissing Cassini Goodbye, Goodbye Cassini which, after a few revisions has taken its place in my long list of Bewildering Stories poems. It was a good fit for a magazine that carries the NASA archive of so many of Cassini’s images. You really need to go there and look. BwS is stunning in terms of scope and quality and it’s FREE online to read!!! Exploring Hemispheres was in last week’s issue. It’s sort of spacey in an underwater way too.The next poem, Kin fits nicely with the other two and so I am very pleased that they follow each other. This was purely accidental but as Editor, Don Webb pointed out to me, writers often explore the same themes in various pieces. I would be interested in how you think they connect.

Gyroscope Review is also FREE online but a print edition is well worth having and makes a good poetry present. 2017 Fall Issue is out now. Click the link to browse or buy.

Meanwhile back at The Linnet’s Wings, and talking of presents, we are preparing our Christmas Canzonet. All the poems etc are being set this month and I am hopeful it will be ready for sale for sale in November. I have seen the design stages and it’s just sooooooooooo beautiful! The Song of the Flower is available for sale now. It’s gorgeous too! Treat yourself!

September • Kathleen Ferrier’s Favourite Apple Tart

In my first year at Uni I lodged in a bungalow on Prospect Rd. Portstewart, with an elderly lady called Mary Kane. Now Mrs K was a kindly soul but her driving would put the fear of God into anyone unfortunate enough to accept a lift in her old Morry Thou. Her budgie had been taught to say He knows, He loves, He cares and she made Apple Tart to die for! In fact she had a letter (I saw it with my own eyes) from singer Kathleen Ferrier, who had taken passage (I think to New York) on the merchant vessel captained by Mr Kane, specifically mentioning her Apple Tart as the best she’d ever tasted.

Now the secret of Mrs. K’s Apple Tart lies in the pastry! It is so thin and crispy that it beats all other pastry crusts hands down. But there are several layers of secrets to this tasty tart and I think I am the only person Mrs Kane ever taught to make it and I wouldn’t want this recipe to go silently into that good night so I am going to share it here. It’s not difficut but there are a few TIPS to it and I am including them all. Try it, and if you like the result (and you will), share it with others. It’s not mine — it’s Mrs Kanes and she deserves to be remembered for it and I will never forget her. This time of year especially, I always think of her kindness to a girl just left home.

  1. Keep everything COLD: If you haven’t a processor (she used her finger tips only) then make sure the (mixing bowl is cold, the butter (no margerine please!) is cold, your hands are cold, the flour, the milk, the board (a marble or granite surface is best for rolling pastry) C O L D

2. You will need to make the pastry first. The ratio is what makes this pastry special. Most pastry is half fat. This is greater, The ratio is 5oz plain flour sifted twice!! (even if using a processor, sift the flour) (do not use self raising — it’s supposed to be thin). 3oz cold butter (I use Kerry Gold Irish butter) 1oz caster/fine sugar (make sure there are no lumps in that either).A couple of tablespoons cold milk. I am sorry I can’t be more specific than that. The thing is to add it slowly so that the pastry is JUST moist enough to hold together (not wet).

Method: Cut the butter up and using your finger tips rub into the flour until it ressembles bread crumbs. Do this lightly so as not to overwork the pastry. Then add the sugar and stir. Then add the milk a little at a time, stirring each little in using a knife, until the pastry will form a ball. OR Place the flour, sugar and cubed butter in the food processor and ZIZZ. Then add the milk still a bit at a time as you ZIZZ.

Put the ball of pastry in cling film and refrigerate for at least half an hour.

You’re going to need an 8 inch diameter metal pie dish with sloping sides and a rim (SEE PIC). If you chill this too, it helps keep the bottom crust cold while you’re filling it. It’s tempting to think that there’s not enough pastry from 5oz flour but trust me, it rolls out so well you’ll be amazed!

So when the pastry has rested, cut it in half and put one half back in the fridge. Roll the other half to the size of your dish (do it by quarter turns rolling in one direction, truning, rolling, turning, rolling… ) Flop it over the rolling pin to lift it to the dish. It should be slightly bigger than the dish. Now here’s a TIP to prevent a soggy bottom in any pie or quiche. Sprinkle a handful of couscous onto the pie crust!

Now preheat the oven to 170C

3 large or 4 medium BRAMLEY APPLES. The type of apple does matter because bramleys are tart and they cook down well and keep a slight acidity even with the sugar. If you can’t get Bramleys at least use a cooking variety and not eating apples because they retain their texture too well.

One at a time, peel the apples and slice them thinly discarding the cores (or you can use these to in jam to make pectin). Place the slices in a spiral overlapping pattern on the pastry base. After each layer, sprinkle 1 tbs fine sugar and a little ground cloves or cinnamon. (Mrs K always used cloves but this is a matter of taste.) Continue until all the appples are layered nicely with sugar and spice. Roll out the other half of the pastry, dampen the edges of the bottom with a little water or milk, place the top on and press the edges down. Lift the pie and trim the excess pastry with the blunt end if a knife. You can use the trimmings to make a decoration for the top like I did here.

Place the pie in the oven on a baking tray (in case of juice). The pie needs 55 mins to cook. It should look quite brown round the edges. When ready, sprinkle with a little more sugar and serve hot or cold with fresh cream or clotted cream. It serves 8 portions or 6 large portions or four extra large greedy portions — or you can try hiding it and eating it all yourself! But I think someone will sniff it out because it’s delicious!!!

I never said this was a health food!

Can you make it with sweetner? I’ve never tried. Maybe, if you really need to do that, you can let us know!

Enjoy and please SHARE.



September • A love of Autumn

I AM NOT A SILENT POET is a great site run by Reuben Woolley for those of you who like the political side of poetry. I have been known to get a wee bit angry sometimes and so if you’d care to go and see this different side of me, feel free. Versatility is my second name you know. (No, it’s not really my second name…)

But I do really love Autumn and there’s a lot to be said for maturity too. Like this for instance:

In Praise of Maturity

My poems are like Gorgonzola
strong, and sometimes they sting,
sometimes they stink, sometimes they wink,
sometimes they sing.
Political or lyrical I like to ring the changes
you’d be surprised if you read them all
how very wide my range is.
I can bring deep thoughts to laughter,
I can do tantrums and tears
because I have been writing poems for years and years and years….
My poems are like Gorgonzola
they go well with grapes and wine
and the taste may be acquired
but they’re mine, all mine, all mine.

                                                   Oonah V Joslin 2017

Our Autumn Issue of The Linnet’s Wings is shaping nicely.  Marie is working on it now. In fact our Christmas Canzonet is shaping nicely too. I have just been reading for that this afternoon. It’s always a colourful treat and it makes a great Christmas present for the book lover! So look out for that. Our latest issue is available to peruse and BUY HERE

I haven’t been much in society since I came back from Dublin. A little Dublin goes a long way for my reclusive little self. Also I have been missing deadlines and am very behind with my own planned submissions,. I was supposed to be getting a book together! So I will keep the blog brief and try to get some more work (of my own) out there. In the meantime, enjoy early fall.

August • with a flourish

August is one of those months when wild things flourish and are fruitful. Yesterday on our walk we saw a pheasant, a bat (yes in daylight but probably a learner 🙂 and in a dark spot at Belsay quarry garden), a stoat, flitting across a road, his dark tail straight out behind, a wood wasp with its double wings and elongated stripey body (okay so I could have probably done without the woodwasp since it was huge) and we heard, rather than saw, at least one, possibly two, swarms between the quarry and the woodland and they sounded industrial in size! We didn’t go looking for them!! In the main it was a very pleasant Sunday and as ever at Belsay there was colour to be had.

But do you remember back in March the Monkey Puzzle by the castle bloomed? Well now it has borne fruit! The fruits were not, as I expected, at the bottom where the flowers had been — oh no! — a Monkey Puzzle likes to live up to it’s puzzling reputation and so the fruits are way high up in the branches. And far from being delicate, as the flowers were, they are the size of coconuts and hairy with it. It’s not a subtle statement of fertility.

Our friend Alwyn was with us this weekend. She is small but exceedingly fierce.

July • A Peopleful Month

The last time I was in Dublin was 38 years ago

I am not what you’d call a social animal so I asked to go to Holy Island for my birthday meal and we stayed overnight at our friend’s. Turned out she had a couple of other visitors; a young man called Ray who is studying to be a minister and had to withstand, I suspect some rather philosophical conversation over breakfast, when I am sure he thought would be merely get chit-chat. Dorothy said most guests just talk about how lovely the wildlife is and remark on the sound of the seals – not us though. Poor Ray had to work quite hard.  Later Sister Gloria and her (real family sister whom we’d met before) also dropped in for tea and again Ray joined us and it was quite an interesting little party. We had our meal that night at The Ship and afterwards we were talking to a very nice couple from Massechussets (he was a biochemistry prof) and a Swiss lady, also eating there. We discussed Brexit etc etc. That was a surprising number of conversations for a quiet overnight stay on the island.

Up on the Heugh we chatted to volunteers doing the archaeological dig on a chapel that has just been uncovered. I couldn’t do that work. It would knacker my knees.

Now, down near the Abbey, skeletons have been unearthed. I am never sure about lifting the bones of people who expected to be bodily resurrected in another way. It seems a bit disrespectful of their beliefs, if you know what I mean. Anyway they are off to Durham for analysis and I shall be no less interested in the results for all my reservations. It would be a pity to go to Durham aflter all that time and not be able to see the Cathedral. You can see a daily diary of that dig on DigVenture.

We’d planned the Dublin trip since before November last year. I hadn’t been to Dublin for 38 years (see pic above). Yes that was me!

We were to meet our Minnesota friends Kath and Jim Mickelson there and I was looking forward to seeing them again. Then Marie from The Linnet’s Wings was coming too and I had only spoken with her a couple of times on Skype. Then Peggy and Kent were going to be there, then Susan and Ned. I felt a bit overwhelmed — as usual…

In the end we had a lovely time (very late night for me) conversation with students of Jim’s called Rob and Mandy and I got on famously with Marie, and she brought me a gift from Mullingar, bless her heart, and it was lovely to meet Kent at long last and everything went well. The company was staggered because everyone had trips and things to do. Noel got on well with the men — he always does. I coped.

Ballsbridge is the Knightsbridge of Dublin. We stayed at the eponimous hotel. I recommend The Jewel in the Crown and Roly’s Bistro – good Bangladeshi (best Tarka Dahl I’ve had in ages) and good French/Irish cuisine. As ever in a French style restaurant you have to be prepared to wait – the French mindset is that good food takes time, rack of lamb to die for and intense flavours in the jus, and a cheeseboard that good, is worth the time and every euro! There’s another French eaterie called Le Petit Parisien near The Jewel that is also an off-licence and will uncork and temporarily recork a bottle for you to take out and that can save a LOT of bar bill!!! 🙂 plus you get a better wine! We didn’t eat there but if I go back, I will.

It was completely BRILLIANT to spend so much time with Kath and Jim again. It’s incredible to me to have close friends who live in Minneapolis St Paul. I suppose what amazes me most is not Kath’s friendship, because she and I have worked together online, but how well Jim has me taped! He says I am ‘an idealist’ I don’t allow that ‘people will be people’ and so I am bound to always be disappointed. This is true. I am a hopeless, old Trekkie! And I always cry at goodbye, Jim. So there you go…

Peopleful = stressful for me. That’s just who I am.

 It’s worth letting down your guard for true friends though x

and Dublin — it was nice to see you again too.


July • Dystopian drift

I keep being reminded, by things happening today, of things I wrote ten years or so ago. PLanning to insert chips into employees to ‘enable’ them to access amenities, reminded me of this one — unfortunately. And I honestly believe that is how the powers that be will circumvent the self-inflicted downfall of capitalism that is already in progress and that it will start as everything does, in small ways first. Thereafter they will just ‘enable’ us all to access some things and not others!

The future’s here and it’s SCARY.

The Dispensary

Tatum walked through the deserted high suburbs towards the low white buildings of the Dispensary. The only residents here were the feral cats and vermin. Life on the outside was too harsh for her now so she had come for aid. She had skills, qualifications. Maybe not the skills they wanted but she would do anything.

Last time they’d given her nutritional supplements and turned her away. “This one is a super processor,” she’d heard the chip analyst say, “Supplements only.” That meant she wasn’t from the genetic pool they wanted. She carried genes for obesity, intelligence and creativity. People like that had a tendency to be fat, physically lazy and imaginative enough to make trouble.

Tatum knew the buildings of the Dispensary well. She had helped develop the facility; had been instrumental in training some of the operatives. She had tried to give them a sense of moral responsibility for what they were doing. It was important that all the measures put in place to combat disease, provide employment and share resources be equitable and humane. Nowadays the operatives trained each other and left moral concerns to the Global Committee.

Tatum pulled the fur coat she’d found at the fill sites tight around her. She was more coat than woman now. Flurries of snow were beginning to fall. From this elevation she could still make out the coastline and the ever encroaching rubbish slick just off-shore. If the snow lay you wouldn’t be able to see where the land ended and the great North Pacific Gyre began. It would all look like bleached plastic. They’d probably put her to work on that floating toxic heap. Still it didn’t stink like… She looked back towards the land fills where she’d picked out a living. Life was rubbish whichever way she turned but at least this way she would stay alive.

The automatic door slid open. A mechanical voice said, “Welcome. Please place your left wrist over the consul scanner.” This had all been automated. She wondered what the chip analysts did for food these days. A barrier was lowered and she went into the booth.
“Chip expired,” said the voice.
“What does that mean, ‘chip expired’?” she asked, looking for the camera she knew was somewhere.
“Operator to booth 9.”
A young man approached. “If you’d like to step this way um, Tatum,” he said consulting an electopad.

“What does it mean expired?” Her voice wavered.
“The systems run off plasma processors now. They cannot interpret your chip. You will receive a new one.”
“Functions change. We will require fresh information.”
Tatum looked at the bland and Spartan surroundings. This kind of impersonal atmosphere was exactly what she’d fought to prevent. But efficiency and accountability had become expediency and dissenters to the new regime had been relocated. She wondered whether Dr. Fiche was still Director.

It was warm enough to remove her coat but she still shivered, missing its accustomed weight. In the booth there was a bed, a table and a chair. Tatum sat in front of the interactive screen and answered all the questions put to her, submitting with ill grace to the various scans.
“Outsider. Super Processor.”
“Last employ?”
Paneuropia Dispensary G666 C grade.” It seemed a long ordeal. Each answer was verified by a RetNaScan.

“I will fit your chip,” said the operative coolly.
“Will it hurt?”
He didn’t answer. He swabbed her left wrist and removed the sub-dermal chip deftly. It hurt a little.
“Is there any work here? I’m a geneticist. I wrote, ‘Mutant Man,’ you know.”
The operative made no reply.
“Dr. Tatum Fenton?”
Still there was no hint of recognition.
“Dr. Fiche would remember me.”
The operative replaced the chip with one from the computer output tray. None of this technology was familiar to her and the young man, what was he? Some kind of robot?
“Can I get some food here? I’m so very hungry. I walked all the way down from the fills you see,” she said. “It took me days.” Her voice tailed off.
He remained impassive.

They brought her some real food if you could call it that. It looked grey and tasted synthetic. Afterwards she was asked to check the information on her new implant and confirm it with her secret pin number.
She waved her wrist over the scanner and the screen glowed green.
“There’s nothing on here but today’s date,” she said.
“That is correct. Please insert your pin.” The operative left.

Tatum keyed in the number. She felt the chip tingle in her arm and waited for the rest of the information to appear on the screen. Maybe it took a while to process. The young man had been so uncommunicative; she wasn’t really sure what she was supposed to do. She was so tired though – drained – drained from years scavenging the fill sites, tired from the walk, exhausted and confused by all the new technology. At least it was warm here and she had a full stomach. Still the screen was blank and somewhat distorted. It was a relief to go and lie on the bed. She felt a little dizzy and heavy – as if she was falling…falling…

Oonah V Joslin

First published 2008 in Static Movement

Mid-Summer • and Winter

I don’t think I have ever been more sad or angry over events as this past couple of weeks. I’ve tried to stay rational and calm. I’ve written a couple of poems to let off some steam not to raise awareness — awareness isn’t really a problem but steam is. And it’s HOT and people aren’t being looked after by the people who are supposed to SERVE communities. It seems as if hatred stalks the streets and indifference has hands in some very deep pockets.
Only words
They do not serve who rule
both are in I’m not a Silent Poet.
One feels helpless.

In the meantime Bewildering Stories’ Editors once again chose to include my work in their Quarterly Review
Not for the Weak and Do Not Hurry, Do Not Rest 
It’s a poem that reminds me of my oldest brother(right) Thomas Arthur Kyle who died, aged 82 this week in S. Africa. He had six children and a happy life and was well loved. A life like that is no occasion for over sadness.
My brother Stuart photographed here with him died over a decade ago, aged 62 of cancer. My mother died in 2003 aged 89. She had a LOT of children (see last month’s blog)

I was sitting in the garden the other night, after midnight, after a late supper, cooling off, thinking, feeling a bit sad, contemplating life, looking at the stars and eating a mint magnum. Must be summer, I thought. But our calendar says it’s mid winter. It’s an Australian calendar. Winter in South Africa too.

What to make of all that? I don’t know. Do you? It’s too warm to think, my head is spinning and the world keeps turning.
Happy solstice wherever you are.

Summer, that is

Maybe it’s me
but I dread it you see
Summer, that is.
When it gets too hot
and I can’t go out,
walking that is.

Because I’m alabaster
and it’s a disaster
if I get the sun.
And I can’t get to sleep
in this infernal heat
well – can anyone?

And the minute it’s sunny
isn’t it funny
how mowers come out
buzzing and zizzing
or barbecues sizzling
well into the night.

But when loud talk and laughter
diminish to whispers
after midnight,
I eat an ice cream
in the garden and dream
up where stars gleam so white

and I think it’s okay,
the cool of the day
in Summer, that is.

Oonah June 2017