The year has reached the top of the curve
and is on the descent in fits and starts,
unwilling to relinquish the stifling heat. The sun
bows to the inevitable with bad grace,
with a rolling of drums, hurling storm after storm,
crackling lightning through the night,
breaking the darkness into angry fragments.
But it goes, fades, I can feel it in the back
of the air, like the cool light in the eyes,
when the hot tongue promises this is not goodbye.
Photo ©Hamed Tahamtan
How did the heat shrink
and blow away in green torrents
of sea-wash, cloud-borne
on thrashing horse winds?
Fissures in the cracked skin
of the earth riffle with downy
bristles, the shrivelled flowers
of summer, filled now, running
with dry dust after the soaking rain.
Earth sighs and sings beneath
the plucked chords of rain strings
yet the music runs through open
fingers, soaking into gaping heat-wounds,
water in a desert of weeping
the sound of falling leaves
a chain saw cutting logs
a dog barking
and the smell of wood smoke
curling through the changing air
The Oracle gave me the theme for this one. I think it shows.
Rain beats its persistent music
on roof and rippling grass,
misting the meadow,
smearing the window glass.
Light stretches unchanging,
uncontrasted, dull as the sky.
So hard to recall the brilliance of summer sun,
the deep green shade of panting leaves,
the dreams of roses.
august heat hangs thick
among the heaps of shadows
dim beneath the trees
autumn was in your leaving
scattered with butterfly dust
This is for Ronovan’s haiku challenge. You can join in here.
The first haiku has ‘bloom’ instead of ‘grow’—not really a synonym, but I prefer it. So, I’ve added a second haiku with both suggested words.
Your time will come, rose
to fall in a cloud of scent.
Bloom, now, in beauty.
Once upon a time,
the green grass grew all around,
now grey concrete sprouts.
Painting by Maria Oakey Dewing
In the long grass poppies blow,
Glowing embers of summer heat.
Fleet, the failing, fading day,
Stay, the evening star,
Far and bright,
Light in the turquoise sky.
Fly, the southbound birds,
Words in the gusting wind,
Thinned, the leaves in the poplar trees,
Lees of summer wine,
Mine, the last of the nectar sweet.
Fleet the failing, shortened days,
Stays the cold of early morning,
Dawning red where the poppies blow,
Glowing in the late autumn grass.
I don’t know if this counts as classic haiku. I suspect not.
Pic by Joe Sullivan
Hot sun bakes the earth
endless summer death of grass
Green waves bring the rain.
In these end of summer days
The noonday sun is just as fierce
And burns the evening sky with August’s ardent flames.
The sky’s a sheet of burnished blue
And leaves hang limp and weary as the twilight falls.
But the mornings of these end of summer days
Are brisk with breezes from the cooling sea
And dew hangs cold and heavy on the grass
Where long shadows linger waiting for the sun.
The blackbird has no more heart to sing
Mindful of the dearth and coming cold
And fruit falls to the leaf-strewn ground
To rot into the mould of fallen blooms.
A sadness settles on my heart
Like shadows falling on a mountain side
At so much fading from the world
That was so vibrant only days before.
But you cup my face and set your eyes in mine
I feel the warmth that comes from your familiar hands
And in those eyes as green as any mountain side
I see reflected our shared summers past
All their sweetness stored like ripened fruit
To be savoured when our days are short and dark.