The storm in waiting

We’re officially locked down again, to within a 1km radius of the house for at least four weeks. Predictions are it will be extended into the new year. It’s going to be a lonely winter and I’m going to work this water theme for everything it’s got! (thicker than water links here)


We batten down the hatches
again, watch the gentle swell,
the sky hang blue as autumn,
cloud-quiet, bird-busy,
hoping the storm will break
on some other sea.

No sail on this green horizon
to call this pile of stones port,
no harbour here, no berth;
though arms reach out
there is nothing to cradle
but the cry of crows,
the patter of the next rain.

Signing in

Well, sort of. I haven’t got a new computer and this one has days when it has to be left asleep, so I won’t be doing much ‘joining’.

The world has shrunk to a small place, it’s become more intimate. People talk about what they like about this new, uncluttered life and what they don’t want to go back to. They say they don’t want to give back the streets to cars, the city centres to tourists and tourist-oriented consumption. They say they want to keep on waking to birdsong. They have got used to taking  notice of the people around them, the things that need doing, the way the trees grow.

These are the things I like to hear about, not how great it will be when they get the entertainments rolled out again, the tours and cruises, the football, the Formula 1, and fill the shops with more junk Made in China so we can get spending again.

There are things I want to say, so I will. It’s cathartic—to write even if no one reads it. I’m working hard on a new WIP, writing poems (possibly not poetry) and observing nature just getting on with things. The days aren’t long enough for all there is to do.

I shall get round to reading some of my best-friend-blogs and will post when I have something to get off my chest.


La vie d’après


Nous ne voulons pas rendre les rues,

ni retourner de se retourner

sans trouver sommeil,

dans le non-silence des nuits d’avant.

Nous refusons les matins sans chants d’oiseaux,

le boucan de bagnoles en folie.

Nous avons vu de près les prés

et les fleurs des champs en bataille.

Nous nous rendrons pas;

nous n’en avons pas le droit.



Waiting in line

For the dverse prompt.


The masked faces keep their distance but all I

want is the bread for the week and then I will


fly back to the leaky nest where birdsong filters

beneath the doors and mice pitter-patter


in the cupboards and dog and cats will come

out curious even pleased to greet me home.


So much might change but it won’t the masked

faces will change to bland indifferent ones


the moon will swell give birth to the stars

and shrink and tomorrow the hoopoes


will boom their spring beat as if the

world’s rhythm had not changed.

Haibun for day one


It is always quiet here, a few cars taking three people to work and two sets of children to school. An elderly couple walks past for exercise. But first thing in the morning if the wind is in the right direction we can hear the distant hum of traffic on the road that goes through the town.

Today there is nothing, only birds—singing, squabbling, chirruping, coughing. New couples feather dance. The stream babbles, the drains from the fields tinkle their steady stream of ground water, a dog barks. No fear yet; the enemy is elsewhere. We listen to the birds.

not silence

but the hush that falls

when the world of men


to a graceful halt