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I miss the girl with braided hair Sliding down the banister Ever climbing  Dreaming Saving Little bits of  Shells and pebbles Feathers, dropped by angels’ wings Still Entranced by little things Like sparrows pecking at her feet Sold for a farthing Lives so fleet Moments gone Like shifting tide  She who played and laughed Has died A little more each day she went No dreaming, climbing  Farthing spent

A number of years after my mother passed away, my father gave me one of her recipe books. He also gave me another, much older book which he thought was hers but which, as it turned out was my grandmother’s.  I am not really attracted to the whole notion of trying out new recipes despite being a fairly creative person and rather enjoying food although I have friends and family who are constantly swopping recipes and trying to squeeze secret sauces or special ingredients out of one another. I am not the least bit interested in the whole chemistry of food and how and why certain flavours act harmoniously together and why others clash spectacularly. My youngest, son, who has a degree in hospitality and has spent many hours in the kitchen playing with flavours, effortlessly throws together a fabulous dish of salmon and some green stuff and something nutty and I’m in seventh heaven eating it! I do not have the slightest inclination to know how he created it. He often reprimands me for ra...

Rock hopping comes naturally to most children. As a young child, I somehow always found a path that required a certain sure-footedness. One such path was a narrow little retainer wall which ran along the front of a neighbour's hedge becoming higher as the road and sidewalk ran down to join the main road which ran through the city. The little adventurer in me had worked out that I could jump onto the little wall where it started at only about a foot off the ground and run all the way around the border of the house, jumping over the gap where the gate and steps met and continue along as the wall got higher to the corner, which at about 3 metres, was the highest point of the wall which ran around the large property. It then levelled out as it continued around the corner and I could jump off at the other end where it was only about one metre off the ground. Why I did this, I never really understood when running down the sidewalk would have been much safer and much easier.  The ability ...

HERE ARE THE PAGES STILL COVERED IN FLOUR   Here’s the recipe for coffee biscuits, still covered in a little flour Meringues and Koeksisters and yummy Swiss Roll, Everything sweet, savoury and sour.   Here’s the recipe borrowed from a friend, Nothing those days was sugar-free, Lemon marmalade and Hertzog cookies, (some said Jan Smutsies when invited to tea.)   Favourite pages, stained over years Now I smell them, and taste the tears As I remember licking bowl and beater Nothing more vivid, nothing sweeter.   Fast come the memories of learning the trick Of rolling the dough, “not too thin, nor too thick.” Of copping a wallop with the same wooden spoon That mixed in the flavours and kept us in tune.   Here’s the recipe for happy days, Cornflour still sticks to the well-turned pages Here’s the smell of a happy childhood That will not go in a thousand ages

This Sea I Love Tranquil lake, misty morning, early I explore Down to the eerie water’s edge I go to pour Every love song in my heart into the sea, our sea, Take that walk down by the water, I have left one there for thee. Down the steps I go,  I shiver as I touch  the lapping waves, the gentle waves, so quiet All too much. Salty tears, salty sea,  I dip my head below and lap by lap I leave the sadness of the ache I have for thee. Slow the mist lifts off the water; soft the sun comes breaking through I’m the dancer, not the painter, That, I leave to you. I have only memories of the misty, tranquil sea, A hundred pictures I have painted in my mind of thee. Then the hills come into view as the curtain draws away Do I have to leave this place, why can I not stay? Steal away with me my Darling, fly away with me Take a walk down by the water; I’ll be there with thee. Sweet moments I remember, the stars, the stormy sea Yo...

So much has been and still is being written about creativity that I wonder even as I write whether there is anything I can add to the volumes already published on this subject. I should dive right in, is what my instinct tells me. Don’t wait for the right formula. Waiting for the right moment, the mojo, for my head to be in the right space, for the creative juices to flow will not produce one single creative moment. One could procrastinate until the moment is “right” whatever that “moment” might be.  I wonder as I wander. Someone wrote a song like this. I could google it I guess, but do I want to google it? I may end up going down some rabbit hole in search of something someone else has written and to what end? Only to discover, they said it first? I wouldn’t be the first to simply wander. Wandering has enabled me to tap into some of my best creative thoughts. The less planning that goes into it the better. Planning being limited to: Bag; apple; phone; kikoy (which doubles u...