White Owl Island

It’s 5.30 am and I’m heading down to the garden. This is my favourite time of the day – just me and the dawn chorus. No people; no extraneous noise. Peace and tranquility.

The gardens are beautiful. Not regimented like the gardens of large buildings usually are, but rambling and cottage-like, and are obviously very well tended. There are little grottos made of stone dotted about, and some delightful statuary, and not all of it religious in nature either. There is a beautiful bronze mermaid laying languorously on a large rock, with her fingertips in the fishpond. The fishpond is only small, and is home to a few goldfish and a frog or two. It is surrounded by a variety of ferns.

Through a very ornate iron gate is the abbey’s walled kitchen garden. Every variety of vegetable and herb is here, and all grown on sustainable, permaculture principles. Every inch is used. There are compost bins in one corner and I can hear the steady buzz of a beehive somewhere. Espalier fruit trees – apples, pears and stone fruits – stretch their limbs across the faces of the walls. This all accounts for the delicious flavour and quality of the meals served to us.

I’ve wandered around, sniffing the flowers and herbs and I’ve made myself a small posey to put in a glass in my room.

I can hear movement now, so I will go and wash and make my way to the refectory for breakfast. I have no idea what the day will hold; I’m not sure if activities are organised or if you can wander at will, but I can ask someone.

Ah, there’s Woody and Sal, coming down the stairs. ‘Morning, you two. I’ll join you in the refectory in a few minutes. I just have to have a wash.’
‘Did your bed soften up after you got in it?’ said Woody.
‘Yes, I had a wonderful night’s sleep.’
‘Well, we’ve discovered another bit of magic. We were having a wash in that ice-cold bathroom, and I said ‘I wish this were warm water’, and, just like that, it was!’
‘Oooh, thanks for telling me. I’ll be down in about five minutes.’ And I headed towards the bathroom. I think I might risk a bath after breakfast if I can have warm water.

Exploring on the Island, found some magical, silvery,

salt scrub…

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

It is dusk on White Owl Island and all is quiet, not a mouse can be heard stirring.

Heather Blakey – April 3 2008 

I am wondering where I might go
to plant a tree
A tree to remember a little dog
Will I plant a tree to remember her on Owl Island?
Or will I choose to go to the Hermitage?
Or perhaps I will plant one in my garden!

Last night at midnight I drove my friend
Angela to a Vetinary Hospital in Werribee
A large outer suburb of Melbourne.
Some 30ks from where we live.

Desdemona was a 5yr old Dachshund
Short legs and a long fat belly
We called her Dessie for short
She was Jessie Dog’s best friend
She thought Jessie was her Dog Mother
She nuzzled Jessies eyes,ears and nose
As well as at the other end too
She slept in our beds at all times in the night

She had a massive brain shut down and was paralised
Her eyes told us she was in pain
We wrapped her in her blanket,
And with Jessie dog on board
We crossed the Westgate Bridge
that joins the east with the west in Melbourne

20 minutes later we entered the training hospital
through the emergency entrance.
Three vets on duty and four vet nurses.
Angie laid Dessies limp body on the treatment table
A decision was not hard to make
No recovery was possible
So a small needle in her leg put her to sleep
In the arms of her loved owner

We came home dug a hole near the fish pond
Where she loved to watch the fish
Wrapped in her favourit blanket
we lowered her in very gently after lots of hugs and kisses
Her little plaque with her name on
and her few toys went in as well
Angie could make this decision
that was so hard knowing
In her 5 years of life she had
lived it to the fullest
Her fiesty loveable dog
was at peace.

We are now a threesome
having travlled,walked,loved and played
as a foursome for some 5 years
Our memories will become stronger
as time goes by
I know for now it is a time to grieve.
To shed many tears ,to wish she was still here
To try and keep busy
but still watch where we walk
in case we trip over Dessie Dog
who was always in the kitchen
looking for a morsel that might have dropped
on to the floor.
We will see her there we will see her here
She will be with us for a long time to come

Lois (Muse of the Sea) Monday 27th March 2006.

squirrels’ evening
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

This is the photo of our ancestors that we keep in the storeroom.

- George and Tiny

George and Tiny

There they are,
see their bushy tails, but wait,
where are they now?
They move so fast,
are there one moment
and gone the next—

oh, I see them, high up in that old oak,
on those highest branches,
see, they’re looking down on us
and chattering as if we’re to blame
for whatever it is that bothers them.
Cheeky little devils that they are—

I can’t help but admire their
carefree life, or is it as it seems?
They have their foes
just like we have enemies,
but they seem, somehow,
to manage better than we do—

despite our sophistication,
our weapons of mass destruction,
yes, we have them, too.
The squirrels though,
despite their size and their seemingly
carefree lives, know how to make the most—

of play … it’s all a game, you see,
the hunting and gathering of seeds and nuts,
though deadly serious, it is a game
to be played often and every day.
So, George and Tiny, thank you,
thank you for inviting me to share your tree,
and wonder if you don’t have it right
with your tiny brains and bushy tails—
yes, I think you have it right.

Vi Jones
©March 21, 2006

Vi’s plumbago quilt
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

Vi’s quilt for the hammock beneath the wide tree
where George and Tiny have promised to welcome her.

Lois, this one is for you….

Squirrel Antics

Oh, to be a squirrel—
to race up and down
and round about—
high up in the trees,
noisily acclaiming
your presence
from the branches—

then down again to gather
nuts and seeds for your stash,
and hiding them in haste
here and there and everywhere.
Chasing one another,
chittering and chattering,
flicking that gorgeous bushy tail—

to see the humans
ooh and aah,
and little children
delighting in your antics,
for though they chase you,
they can never catch you.
You have not a care, or so it seems—

though I know you have
unfriendly neighbors like
owls on silent wings, hawks, too,
and foxes, but you’re at home
in wilderness or park, and
I would give a sack of gold
to be a squirrel for a day.

Vi Jones
©March 20, 2006