Crickets ticking

It’s haibun Monday at dverse poets’ pub. The theme this week is summer.

Photo©Hans-Jörg Hellwig


Summer, longed for all through the cold months of winter, looked for when the first shoots of spring green appear, bursts upon us, armoured in fire and cruel as searchlights. We have watched for the sun, measured the shadows on the grass, counted the days to that glorious bid for freedom—the holiday. But while we have the car checked over, buy new clothes, find someone to feed the cat, the earth is turning. Geese have flown neatly north, the cranes in their disorderly packs, kites begun their scavenging flights, the swallows swept up the first mosquitos. Flowers bloom and die, seed pods burst in the growing heat. The earth dries. Earth turns. Sun rises higher in its fiery arc to reach an apogee of flame, and before we know it, the flame is dying, the fierce heat fighting a losing battle against the night shadows.

Summer, that elusive dream, as soon touched it begins to fade. The earth turns. Summer love grows restless as the nights cool and thoughts turn to the city swarms of light and night light and a brilliance generated by pleasure bought and sold to warm the winter winds. In the reeds, bathed by river ripples and the breeze from the sea, I watch the fledglings grow and the fruits of autumn bud berry bright. Summer moults and changes. But all is good; all has its place. The earth turns.


In the grass, a jay,

meadow cricket gathering,

eats what the sun brings.