Some mornings

the mist comes down,
rolls from the high land
where the sun peers, cool gold

through a spray of surf, pearl
ocean vapour, and behind,
the glorious blue stretches,

unmarked, unribbed and silent.



Haibun for red kites

Internet is on this morning and autumn is settling in.



Early this morning they came soaring slow and stately, searching the ploughed field for prey, a flock of red kites. Maybe forty birds, flying low, some gliding, some dropping with ployed wings into a furrow, rising again, continuing the sweep. One perched on the woodpecker’s dead tree. The tree trembled.

Night agitation ceases

owls and foxes sleep

clear starry night covers with misty damp

and the silent beating

of broad wings.