“her last year”

her last year at
primary school
the wren’s tail

Daily Haiku
Cycle 15

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“graduation day”

graduation day
cool breeze stirring
gowns and leaves

Daily Haiku
Cycle 15

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“drafty sill”

drafty sill
the dead moth
back on its feet

Daily Haiku
Cycle 15

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“brass coffin handles”

brass coffin handles –
who picks up
the bill

Bottle Rockets #28

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Wheat Fields

When Mum was going through her van Gogh phase Dad would drive us out to Chosen hill on Sundays.  He would park just off one of the lanes and we piled out to play in the fields. Mum would set up the easel and start to sketch the wheat fields receding towards Robinswood.  I thought her pictures were wonderful although she never managed to sell any.

Autumn set in and for a while our visits stopped.  Then one day Mum took us back there while Dad was at work.  She should not have been driving – she had just failed her driving test for the fifth time.  She got out her pastels while we scuffed through the leaves and picked a few shrivelled blackberries.  Pretty soon it grew cold and we started to whine about going home.  Mum did not finish her picture.

                                                                 receding tide
                                                                  dries to grey

Haibun Today  7,3
September 2013

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Daily Haiku

All this week, starting today, my haiku are being featured on the Daily Haiku website.  This is my fourth and final week.  My thanks to Nicole Pakan and Patrick Pilarski, the editors, who gave me the opportunity to be a contributor to Cycle 15.

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Descending the stone steps we enter the crypt, the largest in Europe.  The air is cooler and smells damp.  Lines of squat Norman pillars, almost a thousand years old, recede in the subterranean light.  Overhead, low romanesque vaults support the unimaginable weight of the cathedral. 

Many of the pillars are incised with chevron patterns.  Some of the capitals have been elaborately carved.  Down here, away from clerical influence, the subject of a carving was left to the whim of the artisans.  On one capital mythical creatures encircle the stone, playing musical instruments.

                                        the music of
                                       a winged goat

Blithe Spirit 23.4

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