This erased haibun is for Colleen’s weekly challenge.
In the darkest time of the year the trees stand alone, stark and unfleshed. No hiding
places among thick foliage, budding seeds and new shoots, no warm nest
or drey protects from sharp winds.
The world is exposed, peeled back to its heart, so easy to pierce and destroy.
wake in mild spring sun to
din of green growth.
the year budding,
seeds, new shoots,
wake spring green.
This extreme haibun erased is for the Secret Keeper’s writing challenge, to use these words:
CITY | GRASS | PLAY | RANT | WATER
I have borrowed Paul Militaru’s lovely photograph again for inspiration. Thanks Paul!
On the water, sunlight plays, a steely scimitar slicing the city’s heart in two. Gulls shatter the silver mirror and send ripples flying, feather-soft and rapid as the silent fishes that dart among the frond-waving grassy pastures of the sea.
too bright this light
that splinters—gull plunges
into green depths
flying fishes dart
among sea splinters.
For the NaPoWriMo prompt, a warning to myself. A haibun followed by the erased poem.
Is it peace that falls in the green shadows with the trickling music of the birds that draws my steps deeper among the trees where sunlight flickers and wing-shapes flit? Is this where the key is hidden, beneath the heads of orchids, wild and strange, to open the final door? Feet tread, grass-swishing and bending stalks, deeper and further from the path, the road, the wide world.
I think I could live here, curl around myself like the foxes do and the winter squirrels
and all would be well, easy and without care. But in the patter of the rain, the damp where water spiders scurry and the cold that creeps from flesh to bone, I hear the sound of need, the cry to come back, the pulling in of the maternal bonds that tie so much tighter than briar and dog rose.
scent of dog roses
entangled and enchanted
birds and orchids wild
open the path
I curl around the care and cold
the need to come back
This is perhaps what the NaPoWriMo prompt intended. In my haibun I have put the words I kept in bold italics. This is my poem for the dverse open link night too.
Woken at four in the morning by a mad thrush singing its heart out, I watch the stars and the place where the tiny nail-clipping of a moon had been. By starlight, the field is lead-coloured, not silver, except where the thistledown dandelion heads show above the long grasses, the vetch and the flax. Bird sings alone except for the chortling of toads by the pond and the backing chorus of frogs. Why, in this darkness, when fox and stoat and weasel prowl, when owls hunt through the branches? Is it really an instinctive urge, this drama in the night, or is it uncontainable joy in the spring that has suddenly blossomed into summer?
warm as ditch water
sings of birth.
Out, the stars,
silver above the long grasses.
of fox prowl, owl hunt—
night joy suddenly blossomed
into spring birth.