Argentina Mon Amour

She had come in innocent curiosity, a description which suited her nature too. In Buenos Aires. I also captured by that land had discovered this one surprisingly in the sultry, old back waters of La Boca, in amongst the taverns and brothels of the port.  I, a mere seeker, looking back now am still beguiled by her bewitchingness…yes I know, a tautology, but necessary to truly capture you.

Of course t’was early pre dawn, the stars ever there, but fading from sight, me restlessly prowling the less crowded, cobbled back streets, ever seeking.  Then suddenly that saucy, no … no … that tender violin easily reaching into my heart, the slow throbbing double bass, the unknown irresistibly lured me forward to toward them.

Such a cafe, you dear reader, would not enter.  Truly seedy by any arrangement, smoke filled, bitter black coffee scented, lit by many candles only, those there all known to each other.

Right down the back, on passed the little three piece band, back in the furtherest away corner at a small table with another. Her.  No, not beautiful, but oh that freckled face, tousled sun blonded hair, the gentle titter of laughter, that red lipstick.  The knee high flowing shiny crimson gypsy frock, her well worn black cuban heeled boots, a good jingle of bracelets ‘nd necklaces.  Him.  Also, not handsome, lounging yet aware, at ease, suave, dark of skin, that hook nose, thick knitted eyebrows, long flowing jet black hair. What colour his suit, perhaps… yes yes black perhaps, and definitely slightly ill fitting, his tie or was it a scarf, anyway greenish and lounging untied, casually at his neck, the collared softest hint green shirt oh and not to forget the man’s old navy blue captain’s hat nd that superb Salvador Dali moustache.  The two, sporting slim Cuban cigars, eyes for each other only, both murmuring softly, tossing down wee drams of exceedingly cheap, very nasty local whisky.

That’s when exquisite violin began again, reached out and into to us all again.

The two rose as one, took to the tiny wooden floor, came together ‘nd danced their hauntingly graceful, slow tango.

I still now, a prisoner, still beautifully jealous of their natural, sensual beauty.


And upon the next idyllic mid afternoon, as her soft and tender body smashed irretrievably upon the stark yet stunning rocks below and as the rising ocean kindly rocked her delicate remains seaward, she, our beloved one easily caught the unseen breeze and spiralled up, up, up to the lone eagle nest perched cleverly upon the high peak above.

Hovering at the nest’s edge, upon hearing the gathered crop of eggs murmuring of their imminent emergence, of them awaiting the birth of flight, of soaring upon the wing, she entered one of the eggs, readily nestling in and along with the others, awaited gladly.

Wait, look up now, there went the majestic mother, settling, nestling her warm expansive wings upon the eggs…and all was at one.


Loves live light

Intangible to touch

Full of feeling

Hidden within

Seen from the outside

Watch now, close your eyes

See a mother cradling her own

Close your eyes, look now in

What words?

Profoundly unceasing?

Dwelling deepness?

Oh such labyrinth love,

We can only wander in the wonder

The blood oathing love

till death do they part and beyond

The most tenderest.

Of the blinding binding love


Life dances everywhere

Below tis dawn

Heavens above

The wrinkly paper

The pen dipping, is dripping

The nib coursing, careering across

Symbols magnetically into words

This hand obeying

The words tumbling

This heart a’waltz

The pulse of me

Upon the script appears, arises

Loverly signs a’plummet

The dawning dawn filled with adawnments


Oh … and in every season never a curtain drawn, always through her bedroom window, the dawns were breathingtaking, were never to be missed … this morning’s, indescribably sweet orange-dancingness-pink had been slashed across by Mother Nature, the wind a mere whisper, so clear of sky except where Her quill had stroked a fine line dash of cloud.

She, expecting, knowing, feeling the magic possibilities of the rising day, she luxuriating for too long under the luscious hot shower, enjoying the peppermintish brush of teeth, the ‘everything but the kitchen sink’ brekky, the scorching swirl of steaming cheap instant coffee tickling her mind.  Stepping into everything leopard skin print including tights, several scarves, nd a pull over, then that bit of black polo neck in between, plus the pointy-toe red croc skin slip-ons; all closely followed by popping on the eyebrows, the silver cotton glowmesh earrings, and as though she had actually spent time on it, a bit of lazy scrunch here nd there to the red curly hair, then finally the sweep of rouge, nd the slash of bright red lippy.  That should do it!

Twas time for the self appointed No. 1 Witty Public Nuisance of the Blue Mountains to launch herself upon the unsuspecting public … look out, turn off the lights, hide under the counters, here she comes.

And today, yes there amongst the flocks at an art exhibition in the Katoomba Cultural Centre, there, she lingered or was it loitered below a specific painting: that, from knee caps down only, standing naively in a thick cottonish skirt, then as though growing from her brown lace up boots, tucked in little white spring flowers coming out from the top. Beside the red headed one, also gazing intently upon the innocent tender picture,  a little one: shiny auburn shoulder length hair, slender, radiant, alert.  There was a brief rustle, a knowing glance between the two, they spoke, nodding conspiratorially , easily…yes they agreed, the one in the picture was definitely a fairy, both promising to wear flowers in their shoes every day, that everyone should wear flowers in their shoes every day… both nodding keenly, both wanting such a splendid notion to take place

That was when the older one did an encircling soft shoe shuffle then arms out asked the little one if she would like to dance.  Glancing first at her dad, he within eye sight nodding yes, her shy smile nd a’twinkling eyes, ‘Oh …oh yes, yes please.’ In amongst the quite hum of art appreciators, perhaps momentarily everyone in Fairyland, and knowing the fairy in the picture was watching, the two easily, naturally, waltzed to their own tune, simply being.. plus each time they spied each other round a partition, a spin a swirl, a true wave of delight.

In a while, as she was leaving, the little one came up nd reminded the older one bout the promise, a touch of hands, then at the door blowing  a kiss ‘nd waving, so glad for the joy.

The little one bout 9 years old, the other 75 years young.  For the older one (in years only!) if possible, the day becoming even more blessed than before and her deeply thanking the painter of magic.