her last year at
the wren’s tail
brass coffin handles –
who picks up
Bottle Rockets #28
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.
dries to grey
Haibun Today 7,3
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.
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