poetry diary

Roots, shaking off earth,
glow white, like worms. I toss them,
dead, into the hedge.

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Gardening is a brutal affair sometimes.

A band playing jazz
under a tree in the rain –
drops weighting its leaves.

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They were about to get very wet.

Early summer rain
scatters rose petals and scents
of an eager earth.

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It’s been raining a lot here this week.

A tiny cyclist
head down, speeding. I move left
and bask in mum’s smile.

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Time to start writing again.

Still blue autumn day;
whispers of frost on the roof.
A red vine leaf falls.

Trembling willow leaves
alive to summer winds, fall
to winter’s first breath.

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Contemplating the willow tree in our garden.

Opening my blind
to frost-iced roof tiles, last night
lingers in the sun.

Summer oaks tremble
to music she summons with
delicate fingers.

From distant woods, leaves
rise like mist. Here, a sparrow
alights with a twig.

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Possibly still under the influence of my visit to Japan.

Early spring morning.
At Haneda I buy
hand-printed fabrics.

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Leaving Japan, feeling sad. It is a lovely country full of welcoming people.