This haibun is for the dverse recipe collection. I’m never certain I’ve got it right, and as for the kigo word, that’s anybody’s guess.
We camped in the house where there was no heating except the open fire, no electricity except three overhead lights, and a stone sink pitted with mysterious caves that the child in me peopled with merfolk and sea monsters. The basics, we had bought with us—butter, bread, coffee, and a bottle of wine—and though we arrived too late for the shops, we had neighbours. From one we bought eggs, and another gave us a lettuce and a bag of potatoes. On that first evening we walked through the twilight up the hill, and picked sprigs of rosemary and dandelion leaves. In the ditch there was wild garlic and on the banks, marjoram. We made an omelette of fines herbes and tossed the boiled potatoes in the pan with butter and rosemary. There was oil and vinegar and salt in the cupboard for a salad dressing and plums from the tree in the garden. It was late summer and the orioles were singing.
Summer lingers late,
we leave some plums for the birds,
sweet songs our reward.