Sunday morning


Sunday morning and the hunt is on

chasing belling sounding

through the quiet fields

where quarry quivers in fear.

This world is raving


where peace once walked

barbarity stalks


the dream gone sour.


One drop

the rain begins

a curse—

the scent trails fresh and singing

sky weeps but not for us

feet trample

and in the rain-whisper

shots and death

where warm life scurried nurtured and loved.


In the gloom

I see the sky weep blood.


We walk


stirring ghosts and noise

displacing the silence of growing things

with our death wishes

and all our yesterdays shadows

cast by tomorrow’s fading hopes

and the monolithic mountain

of today’s body count.

Haibun for an autumn Sunday

It’s September, it’s hunting season and a typical Sunday of keeping away from the hedges and the trees.


I wanted a garden, got a meadow instead, and the flowers are wild. Not a garden but home to a voiceless population. A home encircled by men with guns, nature lovers, protectors of the environment, killers. I have become a sentinel.

Who loves nature

does not carry

a gun.