Home, where the river runs through the garden

There's a super moon in the sky tonight.

The guinea-fowls in the tree think it's dawn, their raucous laughter filling the perfectly still evening.   We have a glass of Springfield Life from Stone on the top deck, with the chink of the crystal glasses ringing in the night.   The heavens are filled with black and white clouds with the super moon peeping through every few minutes, like an ever-changing screensaver.

It's warm outside, with thick cloud-blankets.   We are still in our gowns.

A dry Protea is set alight, its woollen heart burning like an olympic flame.    

The owl that lives in the Cypress tree across the road is hooting softly.

The frogs in my pond croaking, croaking, croaking.