Cobblestone memories

A cobble quadrille in haibun form for the dverse prompt. And because it has become an infuriating habit, I have added the erased version at the end.

 

Cobbles wound like tortoise shell up my childhood streets with Brontë names and spread beneath the market stalls Saturdays. Cobbles splashed with rain beneath the gothic gargoyles where our children played—memories engraved in stone.

 

Terracotta tiles

fill this summer house

with barefoot cool.

 

 

Like streets

beneath the rain

memories

tile this house.

autumnhouse

 

 

 

Birds at nightfall

Another erased haibun for dverse. I should really be doing something else…

 

Birds at nightfall beneath the rain wait patiently for the morning and the hope of sun. If not sun, the feast of snails and worms will do. Birds at nightfall have no quarrel with neighbours on the same branch or the next tree down. They sleep, head beneath the wing and fledglings snuggled close. Birds at nightfall keep a wary eye half-open for the roving owl and the opportunist fox and stoat. They watch with calm the stars that peep through rents in the raincloud. Birds at nightfall have no thought for falling shells, burning homes or screaming children—nor do the owl, the fox, the stoat. Strange, when they are so far below us in the league table of worthy species.

 

Raindrop trembles

on the petal’s edge

sparrow waits to drink.

 

 

Wait for morning hope

no quarrel,

sleep beneath the wing.

Watch the stars

the raindrop

on the petal’s edge.

Erased haibun: Elegy

For the NaPoWriMo prompt, an elegy for things past, dreams unfulfilled.

1024px-Large_Blue_Horses

Before the words took hold I dreamt of you and all the things that we would do. I longed for places little knowing you can never own a place nor keep it unchanging in your heart. We moved on, like grazing horses on some endless meadow, our herd growing, grazing where we led. Dreams fulfilled leave yawning gaps, they float into the placid blue of complacency. And when they wandered and the grass was bittersweet, I let the words in to fill the space.  The words spiked the hilltops with their shining speartips and I let them in. They march, day and night in serried ranks trumpeting hopes of success and at last an easy life. They march. Over the hills and far away, with the grazing horses on the bittersweet grass.

 

On the rim

of the hill

sun sets—dying gold.

 

 

Before

I dreamt of things

longed for places

horses grazing

placid blue.

They wandered far away

bittersweet.