January “Haiku”

seems like I am missing our willow at Montgomery Farm

maybe we need to plant one here.


January’s hair still

the willow tastes frost

its clothes at dawn


wispy cloud beards

float pensively

on the absence of breeze


Jack waits behind

the curtains of dusk

to break his curfew


ready to paint whiskers

in invisible ink

for dawn to reveal


the five o’clock shadows

lengthen time

beyond prescience


the quiet hush of birds

awaits the nightingale

the spoor vanishes


closing curtains now

against all the cold

where’s the kindling?


January’s child shivers

under clarion stars

no room at the inn


A summer evening sat on the back door step at Montgomery Farm..

From there I used to watch the willow with her moods and look at the plough constellation.


the willow hangs still

leaves on a gallows,

she is pensive tonight


the proud rooster

senses the dusk

and returns to his cage


Norah the bat

soars in the pendant twilight

looking for mangoes


the bridge of sighs

blows smoke rings

perfect circles, of knowing


a fiery red tulip

seals up her lips

and crosses her legs


night falls on the grass

down, in the meadow,

feathering dusk


wondering of the dew

now so long forgotten.

how sweet, was its taste?


with comb now in hand

she pulls out

all of the knots of her life


an actuary of no

the cells so very forbidden

and , only by her


the willow hangs still,

leaves on a gallows.

she is pensive tonight …

The Hooded Man

hunting echoes

in a canyon

with a ceremonial



wearing an overcoat

of shadows

belonging to

someone else


seeking a river’s tears

under a willow tree

being coy with carp

and an egret


wobbling with

the newborn deer

in ignorance grass

on poppy meadows


where remembering

brings no opium

not for ghosts

or djinns


counting cherry stones

piled in perfect balance

a heap of Sakurai

in the making


a sandwich of Satori

rice paper fine

and as delicate

as dew


the dawn chases away

echoes and shadows

and walks daisies,

petal footsteps in the stream


tickling toes between

washing scales

as the sunlight



the mists yawn

the trees sway

dancing mirror ponds

shimmer sequins


the stars stretch

their cosmic arms

teasing the hair

of night’s sky


and now even echoes

chime no more

Pie Jesu in the snow

as a lamb sings


frolicking with buttercups

and dents-de-lions

shorn of shadow coats

and now naked


no more soul

to clothe him

not now

not ever


the land of shadows

fades misty fast

without meals

or succour


and diamond eyed,

glinting galaxies,

he pulls up his cowl

the hooded man


… … hunts no more

Quiet “Haiku”

Kate Bush wrote “50 Words for Snow”, I simply love how a fresh snowfall muffles everything. Out in the countryside it is even more excellent.


the hush of an Eskimo

whispers winsome,

felt dressings in the snow


the caress of rain

on grass verdant is

a most soothing tincture


even the silence

has no echo to it

and each second, sublimes


tense shoulders shrug

for the want of it

the yearn of so many, years


a calamity now calmed

with now no wind

puffing into sails


a feather caresses

as time ceases

any, audible ticks


cotton wool soft

a whispy cloud

wandering, still pensive


oh those decibels

of  the quiet

sound so very, loud


a heart pulses

but not in vein

to breathe yet, in winter


my willow tree

now, braids her hair

and coyly winks


and now the pillows

call so  pregnant

for my brow


soon the quiet

will pull up the duvet

close my ears…..