Amelia Fielden & Jan Foster

Acceptance

this quiet night
as a sad year departs
I’ll replace
longing with acceptance ─
my agapanthus stand tall

In December 2019, embraced with the love of family visiting from the USA, I still feel young irrespective of my birth date. 2020 has turned me into an old person. Plans for adventures at home and abroad sabotaged by Covid-19, I am isolated from my grandchildren and many of those who animate my life. No fireworks this New Year’s Eve. But tomorrow I’ll plant the Golden Bunny rose bush a friend gave me to mark my birthday.

af

small birds dart
in and out of shadows
restless
with the year’s turning
life beginning to stir

Being forced by circumstances to spend the festive season alone at home, I wander out to sit in my garden. Honey-eaters flit and flutter among the branches of a large Bottlebrush, feasting on nectar and chattering to each other. Watching them, something deep inside me sparks back to sudden life. Why not create my own virtual garden, a gathering of photographs of all my missing loved ones—friends and family alike—where I can sip and sup whenever I feel lonely. I order a large corkboard online from a nearby store to be delivered so I can begin to plant my garden of faces, to feed my soul.

jf

perched on the fence
sulfur-crested cockatoos . . .
I send photos
to a distant granddaughter
my favourite birds, she texts back

Their father posts pictures on Facebook of the teenage siblings standing in snow, ready to hike up the mountain behind. I see that her younger brother is now a bit taller than Haylie. The next day, during our FaceTime chat, I comment on this to Stephen. “Yep,” he confirms, “and my New Year resolution is to catch up to Dad.”

I may be shrinking, but they are still growing, and that’s wonderful!

af

clear as a wish
in the rising light
a feather
drifting on the air
floats away out of sight

In the sugared almond colours of dawn, I’m standing on the shore of Australia’s surf coast, lost for words. Later today, I’m to deliver the eulogy to my sister, lost to us through melanoma. We had always loved the beach as children, so I thought spending some time here might spark inspiration for a fitting tribute to her.

In the soft hiss of retreating waves around my bare feet, I seem to hear her voice.

“Don’t go all maudlin on me, tell them of the fun we had. Recount the silly things I did, especially the ones that shocked everyone. I’ll be there: you didn’t think I’d miss out on this bit, did you?”

In the fading echo of her laughter, a gull launches over the water into the morning sun.

jf

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About the Authors

Amelia Fielden is Australian. She is a professional Japanese translator and a keen writer of traditional Japanese forms of poetry in English. Her most recent collection is These Purple Years (Ginninderra Press, 2018).

Jan Foster lives in Geelong, on Australia’s southern coastline. She loves to write tanka, tanka prose, haiku, haibun as well as responsive sequences with friends.