Towards Christmas

from w
I took some photos this morning to go with the poem I wrote a few days ago.

The moon blurs beyond the jackaranda
As Radio Magic and the Seekers befriend, 
Rocking riding rolling out on the bay 
all bound for morning sound many miles away.

Iced coffee, with heart shaped blocks of ice sooth.
The arthritus has not kicked in
With the 26 degree heat, a blessing.

Then I think of army tents
On a ravaged island
Unwelcome strangers
All bound for mourning sound
Many miles away.