Modern Haikus and Senryus
Clear air -
nettle flowers yet,
gold-glint scraps
running to brown seed -
a pale, April ghost
sulks under the pear tree.
Jet cuts into
infant squeals
and tides of traffic.
Willow herb -
a white-rib-emptiness of seed pods -
renews delicate
purple flowers.
The littlest of wasps
searches in vain,
through sun-leaves
of my hedge.
Silence I let be,
being let die,
memories untie.
Webs
between my sheds
are spun of sundown gold.
.
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
