Moon madness


I woke at dawn the other morning
the kitchen was flooded with light
I stood at the window and watched
a sequin, embellish the velvet night

There was no coffee in hand to remind me
of the distant past
when we stood conversing silently,
no questions asked

In those moments,
we owned eternity
life was larger than life itself
oh! the unbridled audacity

how young we were!

we said so much more in silence,
than words could ever say
I know now, always is but a moment
that moment, is today


I stood still at the window and waited
and so what if it took years and a day?
for the the wan moon to brighten
and for the supermoon to take her place.

a dawn bird

Moving on

It’s eighteen years and a day
My grief has come of age
So the boxes are packed
I’m giving your clothes away

The shirt I wore at dawn
Those grey socks kept my feet warm
your jacket is empty
the sleeves, too, of hugs.

Your touch, your taste is elusive
your absence takes up less space
I no longer lie in bed and wait
you nudging at my ribs
whispering, Hey! You awake?

It’s eighteen years and a day
yes, my grief has come of age
In that darkest space there is a celebration
as angel wings sprout
and thoughts of you lift me up

How proud you would have been
Against all odds,
I have lived to say
your memory brings joy as always
but you should also know, there are nights
Oh! how I wish you were with me again.

a dawn bird

Listening to small sounds

DSCN5375This is Solo, a duckling I found on the banks of the lake near my home.  She was part of a big family, but she caught my eye.  I’ve written about her in a post some years ago.  She was so brave and always vulnerable as she stepped away from the safety of the brood.  She had a broken foot that healed in a way that made her limp.  It didn’t stop her adventures.  I take my cues on life, from her.

It is only recently that I started to value my single life.  The thing I value the most, is early morning when I can be alone with my thoughts, but there are some disadvantages too, like a few nights ago.

I got to Moora just before dusk to find teens on mountain bikes playing chicken with the light traffic of occasional trucks and cars.  I have worked with teens who have no regard for law and order, more so than the rite of passage of adolescence.  When in a group, things can go wrong very quickly.  So I assessed what I could see.  The police lights were flashing in the distance so I knew they were keeping an eye on things.  I got to my chalet in the caravan park and started working.  By night time I curled up on the sofa to watch TV, the raucous laughter of teens carried by silence, to me.  A true life sleuthing of a cold case had me transfixed so I stayed on the sofa until late.  I finally turned the lights off and peered outside only to find, I was the only person staying in the caravan park!  I didn’t need to know this!

I lay in bed unable to sleep.  The caravan park backs on to a local oval and is right in the middle of the tiny town.  The sense of isolation crept up my spine.  My vulnerability made my heart pound in my ears, drowning out all other sounds.  Then I went through the drill of safety.  It goes like this.  As soon as I enter a hotel room, I check the doors and windows are locked.  I do this for a reason.  I’ve had three incidents where this kept me safe.

The first is when this safety drill took a life of its own.  It is another story so I’ll hold that for now.

The second incident happened in Broome.  It was hot and humid, as Broome usually is.  It was in the middle of the day when I got to my room.  I checked and the big glass door was locked.  I stepped in for a cool shower then wrapped a towel around me and walked into the bedroom only to find a man in the courtyard trying to open the sliding door.  I thought he was a guest and entered the wrong courtyard.  I called out to him but he scurried away without looking backwards.  When I reported this to the hotel, they mentioned other people had complained too and they were on the lookout for him.  That’s when it struck me that he wasn’t a guest and how lucky I was.

The second time was in Bunbury.  Fatigued from driving I lay down on the bed at dusk after checking the windows and doors.  I fell asleep and woke around 11 pm.  The curtains were wide open and the room was adjacent to the main road into town.  I closed the curtains, got ready for bed and switched off the lights.  As I lay there, I heard cautious footsteps, then the gate to my courtyard open with a slight squeak.  I listened as the security sliding door opened oh so slowly.  I was on my feet in a flash and flicked on the outside light.  I heard footsteps scurry away.  The management were kind enough never to give me an outer room again.

In Moora I knew everything was locked in the chalet.  This knowledge calmed me eventually.  I switched my focus on the here and now and lay in bed listening to small sounds.  Anxiety had distorted them to thunder, so I focused steadily.  I heard gumnuts rain on the roof in a stiff breeze while the hum of the air con filled the night air intermittently.  All was well.  It was summer in the Wheatbelt.  A time and place for everything.  So I allowed sleep to overtake me.

The next morning I woke to light.  I must have turned off the air con sometime during the night.  The chalet was cool.  The pink galahs were screeching raucously in the gum trees.  All else was still.  Despite the noise from the birds, it felt like solitude.  Coffee seemed to jar a gentle moment of awakening, so I made a mild cuppa tea, English Breakfast, instead.  And, like Solo, I contemplated.

Sometimes we create squiggles from a straight line.  Sometimes, a straight line can be a squiggle.  I’ve found resilience comes down to perception and how we see things.DSCN9964.jpgSolo has remained a duckling in memory.  I suspect a careless driver ended her adventures one day.  I never saw her again after the initial few days she roamed the neighbourhood.  I’m sure Solo would agree, single or attached is irrelevant.  It is how we live life is important.  Tiny as she was, she was powerful in her presence.  She taught me, if one looks, one finds, life is all about the unexpected.  I’ve seen new generations of ducklings since then, but she remains warm in memory.  Today my smile comes easier.

I’m off again.  Having given away the humdrum of 9 to 5, I’m humming Billy Joel’s, ‘This is my Life’ instead.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

Teeter totter


Finding balance in a busy world, is an art.  And like art, highly subjective.  What works for one, does not work for the other.  It all comes down to knowing the what, when and where for oneself.

I get to visit some beautiful places for work and sometimes, holiday.  The coastal towns of Broome, Exmouth and Esperance come to mind immediately.  But even in these tourist towns, I seek solitude in the crowd.  I find a quiet spot away from the people and that’s not hard to do on Cable Beach with 22 km of beach.  Esperance is my second home.  I know exactly where I’m happiest in this small town.  I also know in Exmouth, I’m happiest near the ocean at sunrise and sunset or delighting in smooth pebbles or shells.

But away from the big name places, I look for the ordinary things.  Looking at them differently generates a mind shift for me.  I’m never sure what I am photographing.  I just instinctively feel the need to take a picture and then months, or years later, see something special in that moment.

I’ll share some of those moments with you.DSCN6755.jpgOn the banks of the Fitzroy River in Willare (Kimberley region) I found these leaves along the banks.  The wind had created this perfect formation.  They were tightly wedged in.DSCN6864.jpgAt home the bees in the front garden love the roses.  I love the tiger stripes and colours.DSCN7940.jpgI have become addicted to the crunch of my boots in the silence of the bush.  Sometimes I stop and check what’s at my feet.  Often I find perfection.DSCN7930.jpgI always seem to find heart shaped rocks on the beach.  I now find heart shaped leaves in the bush.  The universe is speaking and so I stop and listen, ear to the ground.DSCN6899.jpgI love photographing surfers.  They are passionate and fearless.  I learn from them, it’s okay to be the same.DSCN7309.jpgSurfers find balance, in balance.  A hard act to follow.  I’m fine tuning that.

Photography has been my lifeline.  I need a few minutes every day with my camera.  And, in a crazy world, that’s how I steady myself.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird




A Note to Self

The note said, “I’m leaving”
destination, unknown
bags packed and neatly stored
by the front door
I remember the moment well
unafraid, you stepped into the night
and the world trembled as you walked.

I was silenced by your instinct
turned my back on your gamble
after all, what dialect does one use
to reason with this foolish wager
I had too much to lose to watch you win
I stepped aside, always an adult, never a player.
in this game of chance called life.

But truth be told,
I was in awe of your audacity
I followed the footprints you left in my heart
biding my time
until now

I have the courage of a gambler
the curiosity of an explorer
I am a linguist,
I can speak the unspoken now
I can stare you down
or so I thought.

Last night I took my place
as you threw the dice
our eyes met, fortune flipped
your gaze softened
as I scooped the winnings
unaware you let me win

to become the woman I am now

a dawn bird


First flight


It’s been a crazy week.  Very hot temperatures last weekend followed by a winter storm.  The rain was not as heavy as predicted but the winds were strong.  I walked around the garden looking for Brave Willie but he was nowhere to be found.  I fretted he may have been blown further away in strong winds.  Although he was silent, too silent for a Willy Wagtail, his tiny presence was larger than life in the space we shared.

Then yesterday a bush fire flared up not far from home.  The area where I live has a lot of gum trees.  A fire in the distance makes everyone scan the horizon nervously.  So naturally, I didn’t sleep too well last night.  This morning I was woken by helicopters flying overheard, so low you could hear the whoop of the rotor blades.  No doubt they were scooping water from the lake.  I went to the back and could see nothing, nor was there smoke visible in the front of the home.  It was early and with no drama in sight, I thought I may as well start working.  I wrote reports for over an hour, deep in thought when I heard something.  My fingers froze.  My senses alert.  There it was, the unmistakably fluting sweet call of a Willy Wagtail.  I knew it was him!  How did I know?  Well, it was slightly off key!  But he tried again and again and between attempts, he got it right.  Seated on a high branch (yes, now confident in his flying skills), he was chirping away.

I went outdoors with my camera, I got him in the frame, focused and memory card was full!  Arrgh!  I left him and went indoors for my phone.  He was still tweeting his little heart out when I returned.  As the sun came up he lifted off into perfect flight .  My heart soared with him.

I can remember the first time I flew in an a plane.  In my mid teens I flew alone to Canada.  I didn’t want to sleep on the long flight in case I missed something!  In New York I went by helicopter from Kennedy Airport to La Guardia Airport.  I’ll never forget my wide eyed wonder when I saw Empire State Building all lit up at night.

The little girl who sat on the doorstep and dreamed of flying across the world one day, was living her dream.  Overwhelmed she just didn’t know it at the time.

With a flight scheduled next week, she does now.

Until next time, like a child, dream big.

As always

a dawn bird

A summer garden

thumb_IMG_0521_1024.jpgSummer, in my frosted garden.

When in bloom, the jasmine rains steadily.  The perfume is almost overwhelming.  The bees and I can’t get enough of it.

I’ve grown to love this garden.  The previous owner was a florist.  She knew what to plant and where.  I lost the honeysuckle vine in the storm, but glad the jasmine survived winter’s wrath.

I’m slowly adapting to this space.  It is special for many reasons, but the most important one being, it is home to me.

Until next time

a dawn bird




The Chef’s granddaughter

My grandfather wrote the recipe book, The Chef.  I’ve written about this in another post.  I’m sure from him that I love to cook.

I find cooking relaxing.  Being in the kitchen is never a chore for me.  Chopping, dicing, slicing, stirring, tasting, all wonderful sensory experiences.  Nothing pleases me more than cooking up a feast and watching people enjoying their meal.

I have a library of recipe books.   My favourite and most frequently used ones are by Donna Hay, and some very old Women’s Weekly recipes, yes, a few over 30 years old.  I love cooking Italian influenced meals, for their vibrancy and flavours, so naturally I got Jamie Oliver’s latest book for Christmas as a gift.  I enjoy cooking his recipes too for the simplicity.  I have a few Nigella Lawson’s books but I dislike watching the contrived approach to cooking so much, I bake or cook from her books only occasionally.  My son, a teen at the time, finding me always in the kitchen, once told me I was the Nigella in the family “without the porn”!  I recently discovered Yotam Ottolenghi’s recipes and love his approach too.  Yes, I am a hoarder of recipes.  If I lived another dozen lives, I still would not have gone through them all.  IMG_2956.jpgI even collect recipes when I’m in a plane!

One of the hardest challenges for me being on the road so much is that I miss cooking my own meals and when home, there’s hardly enough time.  The upside, of course is, I do get to enjoy some lovely meals while travelling and will share a few with you that I’ve enjoyed around the State.  thumb_IMG_3871_1024.jpgPoached egg with salmon on potato rosti with Hollandaise sauce and caper berry.  Best breakfast ever enjoyed at The Pumphouse, Kununurra, far north of Perth.  It is my favourite restaurant in this region that sits on the site of the old Ord Pump Station on the Ord River.  The dinner with a magnificent sunset, is pretty amazing too and I’ve shared pictures of this in another post.thumb_IMG_1029_1024.jpgThe most memorable breakfast I’ve ever eaten was by the banks of the King River, after sleeping under stars in outback Kimberley.  Bread toasted over an open fire, the smell of eggs and bacon frying and a side of freshly caught barramundi with nothing but salt and pepper to season it.  It set the bar high.thumb_IMG_1616_1024.jpgA far cry from eating out is the paleo inspired breakfast I cook for the family on a Sunday with a glass of freshly squeezed apple, celery, lime and ginger juice.thumb_IMG_0831_1024.jpgOr for lunch, one of the family’s favourite curries is a recipe from Donna Hay (Lemon Lime Coconut Chicken).   A Thai inspired curry that is absolutely delicious and takes barely 15 minutes to make.  thumb_IMG_0808_1024.jpgMy children have never been to India so when they were younger whatever I cooked up and presented as Indian food, got me by.  They were my biggest fans, my version of a biryani being a favourite.  (It’s not really a biryani, more of a pilaf!).  I’m not good at cooking Indian food.  I know this.  I know the taste and what it should be.  I never seem to get it right.  Now that Perth has a proliferation of Indian restaurants serving more authentic food, I’ve noticed my children prefer to eat out when I offer to cook Indian!  Hmmmm

I recently stayed at a B&B in Collie, a lovely property owned by an elderly couple.  Being out of town on an evening when the weather was atrocious, she offered to cook me dinner.  I sat alone downstairs enjoying this delicious meal that was set out all fancy with real silver cutlery, linen napkins and all.  I think I paid $20 for this.  The apple pie with the crusty coconut, demerara sugar and vanilla topping was sublime.  A far cry from a hasty grab of something from a petrol station bain marie in the Wheatbelt.  So naturally, I took a picture to send my son.  “Enjoying dinner”, I texted him.  The fancy setting did not escape his eye.  He responded, “Dinner date with Dracula?”

As I said before I love cooking Italian.  I love the vibrancy and taste of various regions.  I enjoyed watching the show when it was on TV and cooking the late Antonio Carluccio’s recipes.  And more recently I’ve developed a love for Silvia Collaca’s recipes and show.  My Italian cooking leaves a lot to be desired.  I tend never to stick to a recipe but that’s the joy of cooking for me.  A recipe is just a place to start and the deviations are fun.thumb_IMG_1443_1024.jpgItalian sausages cooked with capcicums, chillies and dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar with crusty bread is a quick and delicious meal to take to a pot luck dinner with friends.thumb_IMG_0961_1024.jpgMy go to comfort food is an Indian beef stew with vegetables and pasta, a recipe that evokes childhood, with nothing else to season it but salt, peppercorns, bay leaf, cinnamon and cardamon, slow cooked, of course.  I’m not sure where the recipe came from but I recall our cook making this.  I used to yearn for it and one day, closed my eyes and evoked the memory of it.  Without a written recipe, and with the cook and my mother long passed, I knew exactly what went into the stew and it is as authentic as it came from the kitchen in my family home.thumb_IMG_0177_1024.jpgThen there’s the best time of year.  Christmas.  Where all my dreams come true.  I love to experiment.  This was a little shot of peppermint candy cane milkshake I made a couple of years ago.thumb_IMG_1302_1024.jpgBut I’m not as creative as others in making up recipes, like this one I found in 2016 somewhere along my travels!

All this food is making me hungry, but it’s just green tea today for me.  Oh why! did the word prompt come up with this on a detox weekend!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird







Chore or choice


I recall many years ago attending a weekend health retreat at a place that was primarily for cancer patients and their family.  The retreat would open to the general public once a year and I jumped at the opportunity to go there.  We were warned there would be no caffeine, sugar or salt in the meals.  My knees buckled at the thought but it was just a weekend, I would survive, I told myself.  The weekend changed my diet for months.  I could not eat fast foods (too salty), caffeine gave me an unpleasant buzz and sugar made me feel ill.

Last year my goal was to be a mindful consumer of food.  I wondered if the label had a paragraph of ingredients, was it really healthy to consume on a regular basis?  This led to mindful shopping.  I do love zoning out in a supermarket but have found I need bare essentials only.  I take out the recycle bin every 4-6 weeks.  I’m not consuming that much!

Having made major adjustments to daily living, I’ve set a personal goal this year.  It is an undeniable truth I lead a stressful life.  Making sure I spend some time in mindful moments comes easily to me now.  I am healthy on a psychological level but I have neglected my physical health.  So this year I’m going to be kind and nurturing to my body.

To achieve this goal I had to think what that actually means.  With competing priorities, this part was the hardest and quite confronting.  It required me to do what does not come naturally to me.  I had to give myself a higher priority.  So I thought I’d start like I did on the health retreat and try this over a weekend.

I seem to have chosen the hottest weekend to detox and nurture myself.  In some ways, a blessing in disguise.   Lots of fluid is the order of the day.

It has taken a lot of planning to get to this point.  With a fridge that is often bare was a good place to start.  I could choose what I needed.  It has taken away the stress of choice of what I should not be consuming over the next two days.

This morning I made a jug of green tea, and added lime, orange and grapefruit and a handful of crushed mint leaves, and filled it with ice.  Delicious!  It will be gone before lunch.

Late last night I made a pot of clear vegetable soup.  I could have easily used kitchen appliances to slice and dice vegetables.  But I enjoyed the manual task.  It seemed to be a nurturing gesture.  Despite being a warm morning, my body craved the soup instead of coffee.  I knew the soup was full of nutrition.

Making changes comes down to perception.  It is a chore or is it a choice.  Choice is more self-directed, and a powerful motivator.  A chore is generally imposed by someone else or circumstances.  Having made this distinction, I can’t wait for the next weekend!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird






Three generations


When I had a daughter I realised, to raise her, I needed to know myself.  To know myself I needed to know my mother.  And to know her was to, if not know, but understand her mother.  By peeling away the layers, I am in the present.

My grandmother Elizabeth, known as Bess, was 30 years younger than my grandfather.  A teenager when she married him, a widower with a small son.  My grandparents went on to have nine children and raised ten, the first always considered one of theirs.  We, the next generation, became aware of this history only in our teens.  It enthralled me.

I never knew Bess.  She died long before I was born but her memory lives in pictures and oral history.  She had a beautiful smile that captivated my grandfather, and a wonderful laugh that echoes in my daughter.  I’m told this but can’t be sure of it, Bess is always unsmiling in family photographs.  From the heart of old Goa, Bess spoke one language, Portuguese, in a lilting voice.  Family always recalled her “haughtiness” but, more than likely, she couldn’t communicate in the language of the region once she moved north.  She had her own tonga, a single horse drawn carriage, the transport of the time before cars.  She rode in it to church every day, a distance of less than a kilometre.  After Mass she arrived at the gates of the sprawling ancestral home.  To her own congregation at the gate, she dispensed a few coins, before she retired into the cavernous house.  Alone, a mother of many.  She died young following complications after the amputation of her leg from diabetes.

My grandfather had extensive business interests in mining and property.  With her husband away a lot, Bess was wealthy and bored.  She was a modern woman of her time.  Loneliness her company, she indulged in what she thought were the finer things in life.  My mother in a moment of indiscretion disclosed why her oldest sister never married and became the surrogate mother to them all.  With an army of home help for an infantry of children, my mother never knew a mother’s touch.  Among the gaggle of children, my mother tried to be “the good child”, hoping this strategy would be rewarded.  By all accounts, it didn’t.

My mother’s journey was similar in some ways to Bess.  My father was 12 years older than her, a gap considered too wide in her day.  My father adored her.  Fortune smiled at them later in life, so he indulged her every whim.  And, my mother found what she had been searching for in him.  We had an army of home help.  So I never knew a mother’s touch.  Unlike my mother, in a sibship of three, I was the infantry of one.  I rebelled every step of the way.  Fiercely independent and determined to shun the values of my heritage, I vowed on a daily basis, I would leave the home to travel the world.  A view that made my father chuckle and my mother collapse in a heap.  These are the memories of me when I was about six.  As the years went on, I misstepped into and out of my birth culture with regularity, and admittedly, sometimes got lost.  I defended my right to these stumbles by insisting, this was my life after all.

I did not escape the family cookie cutter when making a life choice.  Despite protests from my extended family, I married a man much older than myself.  The only difference, I was committed to breaking away from tradition.  I was never going to be like my mother.  But like many others, I found there is no compass to navigate being a parent.  Just history.  And, if not mindful, most likely to repeat itself.

Fast forward to the present.  I meet with my adult children on a regular basis.  We talk.  We laugh.  We share a life of family.  We are on the other side.  I respect my children for the young adults they have become.  It wasn’t always like this.

My daughter is like the young me.  Feisty and flinty when challenged, in her teen years, sharp edges would ignite a blaze.  Like me in my youth, the fire did not keep the home warm.  I had tried to rein my daughter in.  The other day my son reflected softly, “Big mistake!”

Bess had five daughters, three of whom had daughters, too.  Those five granddaughters went on to have daughters.  Of those four great granddaughters, Elizabeth is a memory in name.

And so the cycle began …


Unfurled from tangled roots

Life, a demarcation zone

The nebulous line of separation

drawn by heart-eye alone

in that no man’s land

all is forgiven

the writing on the wall fades

the toxic ground is pristine

the slate cleaned,

history rewritten

well, not quite …

a dawn bird

The Mona Lisa smile

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing.  A day of reflection and unease for me.  I adored my father.  As a child, as far as I was concerned, my mother was a distant other parent.  This preference lit a fuse whenever our paths crossed.  The wire sizzled but never extinguished itself even though my father died decades before her passing.  As I’ve grown older the memory of the dynamics between mother and daughter is a haunting presence in my life.  She was a perfect woman to all who met her.  To a child, she was an  impossible role model.

To my surprise today I found I had observed her closely.  I see her in a different light. DSCN8692.jpgIf you’ve taken the time to observe a blade of grass after rain, you’ll know what I mean.  You see details, magnified.  The ordinary, made beautiful.  You may even wonder, how did I miss that?  That’s where I am today.

My mother’s family history is rich as it is complex.  I’ve written about it in another post.  The ties that bound the ten siblings were elusive but impossible to sever.  They argued with passion.  They loved each other the same way.  How did we, the next generation, emerge from that family kiln unscathed, remains a mystery to me.  I haven’t seen some cousins for over 35 years.  Yet, we talk like we saw each other yesterday.

I’ve been home for a few days, making my house a home.  I got a corner here or there looking exactly like I want it to.  I’ve even dared to buy indoor plants.  Perhaps subconsciously I’m planning to be home more often.  I’m nesting briefly.

My mother’s home, my home, was so different.  Her touch was different to mine, yet, our yearning for creating a home is one.  I remember our lounge room once had heavy raw silk curtains in a rich cream with burnished orange cushions to contrast.  It was luxurious to the touch and eye.  I’ll never understand how she managed to keep our grubby fingers away from her prized lounge room.   As for me?  I’m especially happy with my ‘organic’ cabinet with my collection of emu eggs, shells, rocks and painted boab nuts.  They are symbolic of my journey and distance travelled.

I stepped away from the mirror I was wiping down.  How did I get here flashed through my mind.  As I did, I caught a glimpse of my mother, in my smile.

The familiarity startled me. The smile was not mine, nor my mother’s smile.

It was a Mona Lisa smile.

Maybe some things are meant to remain a mystery.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird




















I missed it!

It seems another year has ended in a blink.  I’ve travelled endlessly in 2018.  I’ve tried several times to look at my schedule to count the trips and given up by the time I got to March.  The number no longer matters, but the fun I’ve had, does.

So when on to a good thing why Segway off course.  There’s more of the same in the coming months, so move aside, or watch this space, as I segue into 2019.

thumb_IMG_3873_1024.jpgI’m planning more adventures.DSCN9591.jpgAnd will travel winding roads with destination in mind.DSCN6407.jpgI will spend time seaside in the company of seagulls.DSCN5774.jpgI will seek wisdom in silence.thumb_IMG_3928_1024.jpgAnd enjoy working with purpose.  Head down …. you know the drill.DSC_0570.jpgI will learn a sunset is always perfect, and like life, never marred by the unexpected. DSCN4654.jpgAnd like waves, transiency is also beautiful.thumb_IMG_3869_1024.jpgI will take time to watch in awe …thumb_IMG_3870_1024.jpgThe palette I am given each day.thumb_IMG_3950_1024.jpgI will look for the unexpected in whimsy, maybe even throw caution to the wind and let walls once built strong crumble, to let ‘Barry’ in!thumb_IMG_3868_1024.jpg“All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind” (Khalil Gibran)

Cheers!  May we meet in the New Year to dine again in blogosphere.

Until then my warmest wishes to you and your loved ones for 2019.

As always

a dawn bird