~~~
The next morning Kayla arrived at the school to find the entire staff of eight crammed into the principal’s tiny office. The groundsman was present alongside the teachers, aide, and administration assistant. Kayla had never seen them all gathered in one spot before.
The Principal, Mr. Jones, cut straight to the point. ‘You’ve no doubt heard the rumours.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I’m sad to say they are true. Our funding has been cut; the government deems small schools to be a waste of money and resources. The school will close at the end of term and we will merge with the school at Narellan.’
The shocked silence was followed by a barrage of objections.
‘That’s an hour away! They can’t expect the children to travel so far!’
‘What about the community?’
‘What about our jobs?’
Mr Jones shook his head, hands raised for quiet. ‘The permanent teachers will have a job at Narellan, but there are no guarantees for anyone else, and I’m sad to say the opportunities for more jobs in the school are not promising.’
The questions continued but Kayla heard none of them. She saw only her home, owned by another; she and James thrust back into a dingy suburban rental. In this community a single shop covered the basics: food, petrol, post office, newsagent, general store – all rolled into one. The school provided her only chance of work. Without it, she could not afford her mortgage. Her dream was dashed.
At home, dinner was subdued. A whole school assembly had been held so James knew the worst had been confirmed. Kayla found she couldn’t eat, pushing her vegetables around her plate instead.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll have to sell up, move back to town.’ She glanced at James. ‘At least you’ll be able to see a little more of your grandparents.’ She forced a smile. ‘They’ll be pleased to have us nearby.’
James shook his head. ‘You’re looking at this the wrong way mum.’ He looked at her with genuine surprise. ‘I can’t believe you’re giving up so easily.’
Kayla returned her sons shocked look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We have the farm. It’s only small, but there’s enough land here. We could make money from the garden.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’ve got too much produce, you’ve said so yourself. Why not sell it? That should help pay the mortgage; buy us a few extras. Your cooking is awesome mum; and your preserves have improved. We could survive on what we’ve grown.’
‘Oh James … that is a wonderful thought, but we’d need to hire help for that – it’s too big a job just for me.’
‘I’ll help,’ James said.
‘When? You’ll have to leave an hour earlier to get to your new school; you wouldn’t be back till dinner time. You’ll be too exhausted, and in winter it will be too dark.’
James rolled his eyes. ‘So home school me. It’s not like you can’t teach. You’re giving up too easily mum. Besides, I like it here.’
Kayla felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she imagined a new future: fresh produce in summer; jams, chutneys and preserves in winter. The farm house had an old cellar, already filling with produce. With James’ help, it was possible. And that would be her dream truly fulfilled.
Monday 20 May 2013
Just Some Thoughts
David Newman
Jacobs Well, QLD
There was once a time when men sought out beauty;
In the land, in the houses, and within a woman;
When gowns made from the finest silks adorned a lady;
Whilst speech, chivalry, and manners bespoke a gentleman …
Now those days have receded into the very dimness of our thoughts;
A new age of super bombs and acid rain begins to rule our minds;
So we race to live each day before the final hell is wrought;
We talk much, yet go nowhere, too scared to go ahead for fear of being left behind …
Politicians hold their conferences to delay a lighted fuse;
As they play an endless game of tug-a-war to force their points of view;
While we the people watch, a little frightened, much confused;
Beware when you are fighting your enemies that your friends aren’t fighting you …
And beware of men and women who continually speak ill of others;
They allow their eyes and ears to take in only a twisted truth that makes truth bad;
Then through their speech, spread their illness to their sisters and brothers;
Not knowing that they follow instructions, therefore their thoughts are those of someone bad …
Now, when someone threatens that which is right, stand up and shout out ‘NO!’
For we have no time for such folly, and surely we need not buy our sorrow:
It takes but little time to destroy, and so much more time to grow;
And we have no time to waste today, for we must make ready yet for the morrow.
Monday 20 May 2013 4 pm
Dreaming I Am Edgar Allan Poe, Again …
Mark Govier
Warradale, SA
Did you know/ could you know/ whoever you are …
through the mists and the cataracts/ the delusions of grandeur/
through the hours spent/ before an infinity of mirrors/
each mirror saying dead, dead, dead …
did you wonder/ was there anyone there/ to wonder …
In boundless solitude something is
sitting, sitting, sitting …
before the steady flame of an ancient lamp,
sitting sitting sitting …
before the steady lamp of an ancient flame,
sitting sitting sitting …
it has no core, it could never have a core,
it is that which it writes, the pen made flesh no less …
and that which it writes? Torture, endless torture …
In the backrooms of the imagination,
a living corpse croaks out a lump of noise …
can you hear it, did you hear it?
The book I am reading dissipates …
A haze of space and time gone adrift …
The Maelstrom, the Red Death,
The Pit and the Pendulum,
A Tell Tale Heart,
Tales of a soul turned to ink …
Dreaming, I am Edgar Allan Poe, again …
Tuesday 21 May 2013
Kingfisher
DavidVee
Glen Waverley, VIC
Come with me for a walk by the creek
in the cool early light of the day.
Search with me for the bird we seek,
let’s talk about it on the way.
Look at that tree, festooned with bark,
see that big lump of mud on a bough?
That’s the nest of the magpie lark,
she’s sitting on eggs in it now.
The mess of twigs higher up in the tree
was built by herons who nest here.
Look carefully, you will see
chicks huddled together in fear.
That stub of wood with splintered end
is a frogmouth frozen and still
on that broken limb just near its bend.
Look, it just opened its bill.
Today we look for the rarest of all,
an indigo and azure sight.
One minute still, then, without call,
a diving flash of blue light.
Too long has it been, far too long,
since we last came across this bird.
It’s years since its cackling song
and the splash of its dive were heard.
It formerly nested in holes in the sand
by this creek which now acts as a drain;
then Council, ‘developing’ nearby land,
‘fed’ the creek with a storm water main.