BETTY COLLINS

Betty lives in Adelaide, South Australia. She is keenly aware of the magic of life and words and the conflicting drives of the average person. Only 75, she is still trying to decide what she wants to do when she grows up.

--------

SPRING FEVER

No, your honour, my childhood was perfectly normal,
I never witnessed anything unspeakable,
Nor did anything unspeakable happen to me (as it may do to the youngsters
of today);
The kids next door were pretty well kept in line by their parents: and
I was not bullied at school. My parents saw to it that I was fairly good,
Attended school regularly - did my homework.

Yes, I have a good ordinary job.
So there is nothing to account for it really,

That, towards the end of August,
While the streets were still shiny
Black, and chill,
I went out very early one morning

And deliberately let the air out of all my neighbour's tyres:

I opened all the garden gates right down the road, letting the dogs out:

I opened the cages of birds, lonely cockies, and budgies,

And even the pens of miserable chooks confined in viewless back yards.

And then I looked up at the clouds scattered across the sky,
Slowly blushing to pink, bits of sparkly white,
And ran down to the beach and far along the glistening sands,

Screaming.

'Screaming maniacally'
As the witnesses report;

And all the dogs running after me,
Yapping like crazy, leaping,
Long thin licorice shadows twisting joyously, independently..

You honour, I do not know why I did these things:
Only that I did them:

And I feel glad..

--------

A TRUCK-LOAD OF CABBAGES

dark blue truck wi' muddy wheels
trundling down the wet red road
splashing puddles
spooking chooks
new fresh sun 'xploding through clouds
like cottage cheese, good enough to eat,
rolling away, tumbling aside
it's spring -
yellow wattles burst at the verges
and glow in the distance -
broom and kangaroo paw too,
and cultivated oranges -
and piled truck- high
green and rich
shining
earth-round
cabbages :
rose-buds the size o' your head -
more glorious though:
nearer to God, maybe.
They'll come home wi' me
as well as
go wherever else I go
forever.
a truckload of cabbages
leading me down the road -

Praise be!!

--------

WHISTLING LADY

I hate you lady
with your unusual clumpy red designer plastic
sandals, and clashing scarlet toenails;
I hate you , too, for your magnificent deep
Tyre purple rough-weave jeans with
thick frayed edges; and your carelessly
patterned blueish shirt tucked in, into a
slim leather belt, and your old straw hat, I hate
your smooth lean pretty facae - but
most of all I hate you for that
piercing whistle, made with thumb
and middle finger tucked into your
lips; (I know, because you showed me
how to do it} and all my life I've wanted to
whistle like that, and never been able to;
it doesn't help much that you
confess you've never been able to
whistle the other way, which I can,
with rounded lips and holding a
melody: You, lady, I hate:
first because of the whistle, and
afterwards because of
the wonderful way your clothes fall
together:
Royal purple, red, blue , horse's hide
under the colour of wheaten summer fields
and the shattering ice of sound.