I am 82 years old.
I am in a wooden rocking chair
not out of necessity
but because I enjoy its peaceful rhythm.
I rock slowly back and forth
my porch is made of old, varnished native wood
it creaks in unison with each rock of my chair.
It is sunset,
I look out over a small, sandy bay,
splashed red-purple by the evening sun.
There is an old woollen blanket on my knees that was my fathers
in the background there is the laughter of children,
I am alone on the porch,
snatching a brief moment of solitude
behind me, in the house, my children
berate their children for making a mess
with their toys on the floor
I laugh
I gave them the toys.
From the kitchen wafts the smell of fresh baked bread
and homemade vegetable soup
the vegetables were grown in the back yard by my grandchildren..
I taught them how to grow things.
In the corner of the house, someone is playing a guitar
beneath my feet, just in front of my chair,
is an old dog, sleeping.
I finger a set of prayer beads given to me
by an old monk I met somewhere on my travels
I give thanks for a good life and children
and the chance to make a difference
the wind blows flowers from a Kowhai tree into my lap..
the breeze is warm
I am content.
I fall asleep and snore loudly
until my family comes
to fetch me for dinner.


