|A Spot on the Stream|
|Claude Monet- Monochrome (High Tide at Etretat 1868; The Magpie 1869)|
To Millais, 1851, threatened for trespassing
Here; where vivid underwater weed forms huge spearheads pointing
downstream, as the earth-brown flow around them laps over stones, above
the place lit in brief spells through leaves, the place where a touch of white
willow sways on the current. On the far bank purple loosestrife loops below
twigs. A trunk lies close beside. On the near bank nettles.
You could have painted her here.
above the surface-
(first published on Contemporary Haibun Online)
Water lilies wait under the weeping willows. Years before...
He labours through taste and sting of salt on November gales, the roar and
splash, to anchor an instant...
beyond whisked waves
peak of one dark rock-
man holds his hat down
He sets up his easel in the middle of a white winterscape, becomes part of
it. Icicles form on his beard as the moment freezes...
'one for sorrow'
perched on the gate-
shadows on snow
(first published in Contemporary Haibun Online)
behind the beach hut
my everlasting world
of a newly sharpened pencil -
your grey dressing gown
let fall across the chair,
its folds and crumples
all along the hedgerow
in the 'old man's beard'
dust on his paws,
he slips from behind the shelves,
the library cat
the heron's ring of stillness
we make a detour
reception marquee -
in the darkened garden
tips of snowdrops
Published in 'Blithe Spirit', the quarterly journal of the British Haiku Society
Oxfam window -
stare out through the rain
sun breaking through mist -
a man shares a garden bench
with a pumpkin
Published in the haiku magazine 'Presence'
Waiting for a chow mein-
across the road
the last horse chestnut leaves
a few buds gleam...
Always it seems I'm waiting-
under the horse-chestnut,
a bollard in the bluebells...
'Chinese' coming soon-
odd ones blown free
flutter down the breeze...
in the gutter
(first published in Blithe Spirit)
First published in Magma 42, Autumn
In a dark recess of the local museum, stuffed birds; bittern, heron, in dusty
glass cases, reminiscent of exhibits in the museum of my childhood, the big
house in Broomfield Park through which Miss B, who once darted from a
sum-filled blackboard to point out the first swift, would lead us on our
weekly nature walks. A stone's throw from the house where Stevie Smith lived
and wrote of it, 'How sweet the birds of Avondale.'
my found feather
First published in Haibun Today, 2008. Haiku first published in Heron's Nest 2007.