Friday, 10 April 2015

Reservoir Blog April 2015 Edition


Here in McGregor Summer is finally coming to an end. We have had a few cold nights and we know that the cold is just around the corner. Not that Summer gives up its control lightly. We are still experiencing days of great warmth, and it is still too early to bring out the electric blanket. Wood is being gathered for our Winter fires, and the warm duvets are being brought out of the cupboards. I love Winter. The days are crisp, and the nights very cold. Dressing up in hats, coats and scarves we venture out to enjoy the cold air. There is always something magical about sitting in front of a log fire, and bed is a welcome haven. 



I had an early taste of Winter last week when I journeyed up to KZN to attend a friend’s birthday party. It was held in the Dargle Valley, in the KZN Midlands, and the Saturday of our arrival saw the entire valley swathed in mist and light rain. The night air was bitterly cold, and we certainly appreciated the fire and red wine to keep us warm.

I spent a week in KZN, sharing precious time with family and friends in Durban and the KZN Midlands. Although it was very special to see everyone, particularly my two children, it was wonderful to come home to McGregor. I really feel at home here, and have learned to appreciate just what a special place we live in here. 

I have chosen an unusual poem for today. I remember reading this piece for the first time when I was 13 years old- in The Living Tradition or Turning World I think. I loved it at the time, and have re-read it many times over the years. Last week we lost our cat, Boo Radley. He contracted a virulent form of tick-bite fever, and after a valiant effort by our wonderful local vet , he died on the morning of our return to McGregor. We were devastated. He was a very special friend to us and is deeply missed. This is for him.

Cats

Cats no less liquid than their shadows

Offer no angles to the wind.

They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes

Less than themselves; will not be pinned



To rules or routes for journeys; counter

Attack with non-resistance; twist

Enticing through the curving fingers

And leave an angered empty fist.



They wait obsequious as darkness

Quick to retire, quick to return;

Admit no aim or ethics; flatter

With reservations; will not learn



To answer to their names; are seldom

Truly owned till shot or skinned.

Cats no less liquid than their shadows

Offer no angles to the wind.


By Arthur Tessimond



David