I have been encouraged to try the tanka form of short poetry. First attempts.
Fountains whisper in cool arcades
bright plumage flashes amid glossy leaves
a girl, slender hand, empty eyes,
sighs and picks a fruit.
A perfumed prison.
Waves roll ceaselessly
in kelp tangled depths
but the glassy sea
is still the colour of his eyes.
Regrets and lowered eyes
he reaches out,
touches empty space
and in his mouth
not words, tears.