Thursday, 28 February 2013

over the railway
two ducks synchronize
their rapid descent

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

a drunk on the bus
berates the seamless flow of cars
around a roundabout...
I focus on the purple crocuses
slapbang in the centre of it all

Monday, 25 February 2013

under the arches
the Tex-Mex buskers
give it some oomph

Sunday, 24 February 2013

on the count of three,
the eight, as one, lift their boat
from the grey river...
a heron launches up towards
the nothing-doing heronry

Saturday, 23 February 2013

tricks of the light snow that tickles your nose

Friday, 22 February 2013

Apple Market—
one of those day when
everyone looks familiar

Thursday, 21 February 2013

on Sunshine acid
they come upon cows being milked
along Sheepwash Lane;
see how the sunlit milk pours
endlessly, endlessly, into the pail

Wednesday, 20 February 2013

Arctic winds
stomp through the market place—
with fingerless mitten fingers
the kiddie-ride attendant smokes
a ciggie down to the butt

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

             lily of the valley
she says I've grown into my face

Monday, 18 February 2013

their keyboard-player gives it
the full Rick Wakeman

Sunday, 17 February 2013

The Cherry Tree

The young cherry’s leaves are blown back like a bush
by the day’s end breeze
that drags up fallen blossom from the grass.

The Braille ridges of the central-leader trunk narrate
an undercooked story, of how it’s hard
to draw up from the taproots a month’s worth of rain.

How fine it must be, though, to know precisely
what’s needed to prosper;
not to have to cogitate till the cows come home;

till the sky caves in.

Saturday, 16 February 2013

warmer days...
her ex-husband says
she looks nice

Friday, 15 February 2013

yellow dusk
the crow-chased magpie
returns to its spot

Thursday, 14 February 2013

the path to work
cutting through the sewage works

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

all-day rain
I peel off an egg-shell
in one piece

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Shrove Tuesday
the dentist tells me
she's expecting

Monday, 11 February 2013

just like his birth:
a thin layer of snow
covers the world

Sunday, 10 February 2013

cold rain
my son and I thank the driver
at the same time

Saturday, 9 February 2013

St John's Playground

My son, my eldest son, spins round
in a sunshine-yellow teacup meant
primarily for the under-fives, his stiltish legs
protruding like a bobtail squid’s,
his unstyled hair exploding from his head
which once was cradlecapped;
and with every revolution his smile broadens
as if the hedgerowed s-bend ahead of him
has branched into a sixteen-lane freeway
of life-chance choices, each one
signified in Esperanto, of which,
at an age about the same as my son is now,
I learnt the rudiments by postal lessons
from an old boy in Abinger Hammer.

Friday, 8 February 2013

foot massage:
she says my toes are green,
like old potatoes

Thursday, 7 February 2013

the start of snow
he lifts his son by reins
right off the ground

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Over at Dave Serjeant's blog, he has an e-chapbook to read (for the price of a donation to MS UK). It's wonderful.

Also, Lynne Rees's equally wonderful haibun collection, Forgiving the Rain, has been published by Snapshot Press. IMHO, it's the best haibun book yet published in these islands by a country mile.
the primrose patches between
Wehrmacht-grey clouds

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

wind-chilled platform
all the commuters watch
the workers pick-axe

Monday, 4 February 2013

at the feet
of benefactors' graves:
first snowdrops

Sunday, 3 February 2013

before his motionless son
a man does endless

Saturday, 2 February 2013

in the trickle
flowing from Ham Lands
into the Thames
a grey wagtail's flicker
lengthens its tail

Friday, 1 February 2013

I have chosen the Per Diem haiku for February on the Haiku Foundation site - on the theme of work. The haiku are, as the title implies, published one per day, on the Haiku Foundation home page.


My face is the colour of the pumice they used on me at school. I’m on
my spot before sunrise. I’m there before the suits pass by.
They don’t
know my name. They look at me kneeling outside a bank 
in a town
that’s in-between bigger towns. I may as well be a pigeon. 
As my old
girl said, they’ll miss me when I’m gone. They’ll mark my 
spot with
posies and tape up photos of how I was. They might not be 
sure if
I’m begging or not. I scrape away at my fiddle. They might not 
be sure
if I’m practising or busking. Sometimes I frogmarch myself 
the road. That’s me: muttering, like a crow. Other times, I laugh 
smile my yellowed teeth. I’m tall. And my beanie makes me taller.

But you wouldn’t know that from the way I kneel. I’m folding in on 
myself. I’m hiding from the world in the best place to hide: outside.