Haiku and drawings from 'On The Journey Home'

'
on the journey home
thunder, sitting in silence
letting dust settle




village graveyard--full
of daisies,dandelion clocks
and dying light




hole for the tree
my hand
stirring her ashes




in goal
his mother dodges
away from the ball




tending the path
to the gate,beyond
ruts heading downhill




sea side graveyard
still enough space
to store a boat




bookshop,filed under
motorbikes a volume
on cycladic art




playground empty
but for wind
playing with sparrows




winter's afternoon
making love
the boiler comes on




an urgent call
to wash my hands
of the garden




waiting for news
with me,on the settee
her drop of blood




to travel silent
as the morning hare
on the gravel road





between each
foxglove,a gap
in buzzing





dawn wind
air jangles
with birds




his funeral suit
in a turn up
the wardrobe key





on fennel
gathering mist,shells
of transparent snails





porch bell silent
its clanger gently
strikes the wind




hospital
white plum blossom feels
the pulse of the moon

.

From haiku published in BLITHE SPIRIT (British Haiku Society)

'
overhead whistling
quietly the gap
in a rook's wing






until the apple
blossoms the lichen
on next door's roof








in its grave
gently stroking the hare's fur
november winds







city heat
from the grassed reservoir
a twister of hay







paper bark birches
she lets each page
flutter down







dusk freezes
by the old bridge
caught in weeds
the waning moon







overnight snow
circling the house
each pause of the hare







evening mist
gunshots echo
through dead elms







full moon
barn owl's face
every quarter








beach hut washed
away by the cliff
china neatly stacked








snow outside
drifting inside
fragrance of jonquils







back of the drawer
wild barley seeds
in last summer's socks

.

Grand Prix Haibun for the First International Kikakuza Haibun Contest. haibun FOR ROSE

'
A small procession winds from the walled garden, past high laurel hedges towards the woodland that she loved. I only knew her for a short while. We usually met at private views, occasionally in the shops of the small coastal town, or, once or twice, as two heads bobbing in the sea.

coppiced woods
filtered sun alive
with bees

After recuperating from a minor breakdown, she’d asked me to help fix up her small studio in the town. We laughed a lot, improvised curtains to cover up junk, sloshed paint about, drank wine. Facets of her hidden personality emerged. A slightly wicked sense of humour, compassion, lightness, a love of colour. Unwanted visitors arrived, slightly drunk, she handled them with kindness and love, gently ushering them on their way.

scattering
her ashes wind
in our direction

Her death was sudden and unexpected. We’d seen her just before on a country lane near our house, and stopped for a chat. A sunny day full of promise, two cars parked side by side, swallows shrilling overhead.

suspended in shade
each pin point of light
a hoverfly

Now, after the funeral, amongst the trees she loved, a few Friends holding hands. We stand silent but for the sound of birds, holding her gently, linking thoughts.

in hazel quivering
a flat web holds
a film of ash

.

Extracts from first book 'Choosing The Stone'

'
polka dot dress

moire patterns dance

across her breasts





soon as he died

the widow chopped down

all his trees





private view

old friends older

new work scrutinised





cold east wind

pigeons hedge hop

the penetration






solitary horse

his spring erection

patient stare






midwinter

empty seat faces

the leafless lane






deep turquoise light

from a magpie's back

its quetzel flight






front garden privet

all the town's sparrows

having a riot






ripple's centre

a sucking

carp






dawn

blue corydalis slowly

releases the night






post box

new air mail

robin droppings






red cherry leaves

wait for the next wind

her parting words

.