The golden days of Indian summer are over, and the rain is falling. Moisture everywhere, with puddles that reflect the watery sky.
Mist envelops the view as I do Tai Chi in the soft rain,
and the tide laps soothingly close to my feet.
The pohutukawa, that was ablaze with crimson blossom in the summer, lifts its head to the clouds and drinks deeply.
On the jetty, the shags are as still as the distant boats. This is not a day for much movement.
It’s a day for reflection. I find myself being drawn within, musing and remembering my dear old teacher who is dying. He taught me Maori songs and dances, art and culture, when I was at primary school. He was so full of life, laughter and creativity, and over recent years when I visited he still loved to sing in his rich baritone voice. Now his spirit is drifting like the leaves upon the sky’s reflections, and my eyes are . . . watery.