March 2017
Neil Creighton
dinecreighton@gmail.com
dinecreighton@gmail.com
Evans Head is a small fishing village about 700 kms north of Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. My aunty, Jean Hartam-Bayes, lived there and although my own family roamed from place to place, for fifty years I spent almost every summer with her. She was a wonderful woman who greatly informed the person I became. Both of these poems are set in Evans Head and one is a specific celebration of her. I blog at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au
Summer With Jean
In memory of my aunty, Jean Hartam-Bayes, 1917-2006.
For fifty summers I went to Jean.
The dunes between her house and the sea
were wild and thick with banksia and honey eaters.
To the right a kilometre away the little fishing village
was unchanging except for gathering dust-
breakwater, river, fleet of trawlers,
and Johnny's milk bar.
To the left the crescent beach curved away
into the distant horizon,
just waves and sand and a fisherman
standing shin deep in the ebb and flow.
Waves crash. The tide moves.
The ebb and flow of fifty summers comes and goes.
Here a little boy plays in the sand.
Here he rows on the river with his bride.
Here his children laugh and splash.
Somewhere, dim and vague,
beyond his memory, wrapped in mist,
Jean loses her only child
and Clive, her husband, dies,
but clear in memory,
in inconsequential things,
here and here and here and here
she triumphs in generosity, humour,
energy, indomitable spirit and love.
Still the insistent waves roar and crash.
The tide rushes out, too far, too fast.
Children grow.
Jean grew old.
Then frail.
Then she died.
There is no going back,
though waves still crash on the sand
and solitary fishermen still stand knee deep in the waves.
Some things are too changed for returning
except, in cherished memory,
where I always see her in her garden,
sit with her in the cool of the afternoon,
and hear, with her,
the eternal sound of the sea
thumping on the sand
and then, slowly,
its long,
aching
melancholy
withdrawal.
Remember
Somewhere there are dark clouds.
Somewhere the oppressor grief adds his heavy weights.
Somewhere there is war, or struggle, or suffering.
But not here.
Here you can see the mild sun
shining in a cloudless sky.
The moving river seems perfectly still,
filled with floating reflections.
A man from long ago
reclines on the sand, a rod in his hand,
although he doesn't care if nothing bites,
and a little fair-haired boy, his youngest,
kneels near him laughing in pure childish delight.
Let me fill in some things you cannot see.
To the right is the boulder-made breakwater
where the river empties into the incessant sea.
To the left a little fleet of trawlers
sits quietly moored to a jetty.
Hidden too but fixed in memory
and fundamental to the scene
are his other children, playing in the sand,
laughing and splashing in the shallow water.
Hidden too is the woman, his wife,
who seeing the moment and capturing it, said:
Here. Take this gift and carry it with you.
See what joy is.
Know how it is made of small, inconsequential moments.
Cherish it. Always remember,
no matter what comes or what clouds descend,
this still blue day,
lying on this sand, rod in hand
while the children splash and play.
-First published at Silver Birch Press.
In memory of my aunty, Jean Hartam-Bayes, 1917-2006.
For fifty summers I went to Jean.
The dunes between her house and the sea
were wild and thick with banksia and honey eaters.
To the right a kilometre away the little fishing village
was unchanging except for gathering dust-
breakwater, river, fleet of trawlers,
and Johnny's milk bar.
To the left the crescent beach curved away
into the distant horizon,
just waves and sand and a fisherman
standing shin deep in the ebb and flow.
Waves crash. The tide moves.
The ebb and flow of fifty summers comes and goes.
Here a little boy plays in the sand.
Here he rows on the river with his bride.
Here his children laugh and splash.
Somewhere, dim and vague,
beyond his memory, wrapped in mist,
Jean loses her only child
and Clive, her husband, dies,
but clear in memory,
in inconsequential things,
here and here and here and here
she triumphs in generosity, humour,
energy, indomitable spirit and love.
Still the insistent waves roar and crash.
The tide rushes out, too far, too fast.
Children grow.
Jean grew old.
Then frail.
Then she died.
There is no going back,
though waves still crash on the sand
and solitary fishermen still stand knee deep in the waves.
Some things are too changed for returning
except, in cherished memory,
where I always see her in her garden,
sit with her in the cool of the afternoon,
and hear, with her,
the eternal sound of the sea
thumping on the sand
and then, slowly,
its long,
aching
melancholy
withdrawal.
Remember
Somewhere there are dark clouds.
Somewhere the oppressor grief adds his heavy weights.
Somewhere there is war, or struggle, or suffering.
But not here.
Here you can see the mild sun
shining in a cloudless sky.
The moving river seems perfectly still,
filled with floating reflections.
A man from long ago
reclines on the sand, a rod in his hand,
although he doesn't care if nothing bites,
and a little fair-haired boy, his youngest,
kneels near him laughing in pure childish delight.
Let me fill in some things you cannot see.
To the right is the boulder-made breakwater
where the river empties into the incessant sea.
To the left a little fleet of trawlers
sits quietly moored to a jetty.
Hidden too but fixed in memory
and fundamental to the scene
are his other children, playing in the sand,
laughing and splashing in the shallow water.
Hidden too is the woman, his wife,
who seeing the moment and capturing it, said:
Here. Take this gift and carry it with you.
See what joy is.
Know how it is made of small, inconsequential moments.
Cherish it. Always remember,
no matter what comes or what clouds descend,
this still blue day,
lying on this sand, rod in hand
while the children splash and play.
-First published at Silver Birch Press.
© 2017 Neil Creighton
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