|The Simple Pleasure of toast and honey, |
straight from a hive.
Some liquidambers show russet colours, and the plane trees next door have started dropping some of their leaves.
It is late in the afternoon and I've found some shade on the deck at home, with a book. Another hot day, with a slight breeze coming from the eastern sea. The Pacific Ocean beyond our shimmering Bay is a strong blue line against the pale coloured sky, just visible through our big oaks' branches.
The cicadas, high in the communal trees of all our neighbours, trill their summer song.
From two doors up the hill the opera singer is practising her slow and exuberant voice, accompanied on the piano by an invisible player. Her sometimes powerful, sometimes soft song floats through the backyards and into our living-room, the words indistinguishable.
|Summer reading. New ideas!|
So now and then there are exceptionally melodic bursts of bird song coming from a new-to-the-neighbourhood tui, and the old bellbird chimes in as well.
Are they persuaded to compete with her voice?
Some piano tinkling next door, and a child's voice mimicking the opera singer tells me that Shirley's grandchild certainly feels inspired.
And all around the continuous clicking and chirping of the summer cicadas, while my fat black cat lies on his back, purring loudly.
The sound of a trucks' engine and beeping of a gear in reverse tells me my man is home from work. A thumping sound of boots being pulled off on the porch.
|Weekend bike ride along Hawkes' Bays' seaside. Napier in the distance.|
|Can't stop smiling, what a lovely day!|
|Summer blooming pohutukawa tree.|
|Delicious gelato at the end of the trip.|
"Yoohoo" he calls out, walking through the house. I greet him with a smile, we kiss and he invites me to come with him to the auction house at the bottom of the hill, for a look-see.
I pull the doors shut and chatting about our respective day we rumble down in the truck.
We enter the shady hall and amble through the aisles of old furniture, dusty boxes of curious items and tired porcelain.
|Napiers' Art Deco style gardens.|
He strums a guitar while I inspect two retro drawer units, which have caught my fancy.
We chat with one of his gardeners, also keen on bargains, and giggle over a vintage reel to reel player with large recording rolls, still in their boxes.
My fingers stroke over the spines and highly decorative covers of heavy books at least 70 years old.
I open two tin boxes of watercolours, still with the remnants of tiny rectangles of colour inside them, so sweet. One of them is a Reeves set, the other has vintage Mickey Mouse characters printed on the still bright red enamel.
We put in our absent bids for tomorrows' auction and rumble back up the hill.
|A box of rusty things from the auction house.|
Time for coffee and biscuits. My teaspoon clinks against the cup.
The cicadas sing on.
Can you hear it?