Patricia Langford - some writings and travels

                                             Going to Grandma by Patricia Langford       I stood still, as instructed, amid an unknown throng of prospective passengers for the overnight train journey from Auckland to Wellington. I was feeling bewildered and abandoned, then I caught sight of my mother, as our two battered brown suitcases were heaved onto a teetering trolley. She stuffed the proffered tickets into her purse and turned toward me; a sense of relief flooded my body, briefly. She veered toward a stand - PILLOWS FOR HIRE, took two and opened her purse for some coins.       People seethed suddenly toward the train carriages as giant jets of steam shot warningly from the big black engine. When urged to move forward, I scrambled up the high metal steps onto a swaying platform, then my mother pushed me into the carriag...

 In 1994 Patricia went on safari in Southern Africa.

          Murray River Dreaming       20 July 2000   Murray River dreaming has become reality, Many years of longing have drawn me close at last. Lifeblood of the country, how bountiful you seem, But do we have the wisdom to protect your vital needs? Sunlit jewels of pelicans glide along our wake, Silent, stately egrets explore the silken floodplains with solemn measured gait, screened by gentle grasses rippling softly in the breeze. Riverine splendours abound in the trees, cascading Mistletoe, boughs of the Eucalypt, generous and welcoming, dappled sunlight and shade of the mighty River Red Gum, proud and chastely beautiful, even in the night. The Galah and the Corella, and the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo, may be unwelcome to some but their sightings and the sounds of them gladden my heart. Soaring kite, swift Peregrine, so clean and free, Comorant, so patient, even philosophical, waiting to dry your wings in the warmth of the su...

 In 1992 Patricia went on an extensive "Silk Road Tour" which included visits to China, Central Asia, Turkey and Greece.

                                                    Language of Love  January 2017 There's a war of words around me Keeping me safe, holding me close Filtering constant babble From foreign fields outside This wellspring of words Surged late in my life Urgent germination from deep furrows in my mind ploughed and weathered gleanings For my winter years. Weeping pools of pounamu Melt heart of dark green stone I hear a karakia calling me It now haunts my days Soon I will answer the summons At evening ebbtide Fly North along shores of sculpted lace Caress green hills and valleys With my whispered words of love For the land where I was born And return in peaceful embrace To speak with a new voice.     NB - the above is a direct...

 In May 1992 Patricia went on an extensive tour including Turkey, Uzbekistan, and Greece.

                                                                  The Walking Stick     My grandmother's walking stick, inherited by me, came into my possession at a time when it was fearful to behold. Fashioned from a gnarled, bent driftwood prize, stormcast on the Horowhena coast. Scraped, polished and lovingly presented to my increasingly crippled grandmother by her long lamented husband; even to grasp it reassuringly, while at rest, go for confidence and authority. I remember her saying how a rap of her stick emphasised her demands of casual shopkeepers or taxidrivers deemed to show excessive nonchalance and inattention. Walking sticks have many uses for whic...