The cruel winds of August

I think of Tom Eliot as the howling winds from the Antarctic are sucked along the coast like a ginormous funnel betwixt two high pressure systems. August is a cruel month, and winter is not over until the bitter winds have sung.

Nobby's Beach, Newcastle, New South Wales.

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Memories, of the way we were

The ocean pool at Bar Beach, immediately south of Newcastle.

I squashed into the bus from Catalina Aged Care, with 15 residents and their carers. It was coolish but delightful, and the oldies are a hoot. Norma, whose portrait I featured yesterday, sang 'Memory' in a faltering soprano. She had no clue that Marvin died a day earlier.

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