#74 Snow flakes

Snow is cold and wet
but also magical.
There is magic in
the mathematically
perfect flakes
that fall after
the still chill,
soft as down,
hard as frost,
a contradiction.
As I watch them
in the twilight
this July evening
a couple of flakes
swirl hither and
thither, aimless,
unaffected by
gravity and their
own will
apparently.
They will land
wherever chance
dictates, and
then they will
melt and vanish,
and I wish that
my life was
similar
There would be
some comfort
in that.

Poem # 72 Old Service Station and Hotel

This servo sits high on a
curving mountain road.
The signs and windows now broken
and patched with fibro.
Once a Golden fleece beckoned,
now only a shattered and broken
ring on top of a tapering pole.
The pub nearby has become
less profitable
and is now a peeling
castle for superannuated
trivia buffs, middle aged
drinkers and lonely souls
on the look out for
other lonely souls.
It still has a crumbling beauty
sitting on the rain-wet
overgrown terrace
overlooking the beautiful
vista of the
valley below.
A scene always impressive
be it illuminated in sunshine
or wrapped in fog,
but now this rest stop
is emotionally bankrupt,
all assets transferred,
an ex lover with
transferred affections.

#73 My Dogs

My dogs can experience sorrow, grief, and joy.
They can plan ahead, laugh,
and even deliberately deceive.
They have cognitive ability.
As I gaze into their compelling eyes
I wonder why it has taken
humans so long to accept that
our fellow animals
think and feel like us.