Incense-scented air;
trembling drums charm the arms of
five belly dancers.
—————
Crescendo of bells.
The cafe door opens.
Two Morris dancers.
—————-
It’s been the annual folk festival in Warwick this weekend. There were many more belly dancers and (especially) Morris dancers, but these seven were most memorable.
Warm summer evening;
music, company, pleasure –
until that last glass.
—————
I went to a wonderful summer evening concert on a perfect July evening at Warwick Castle with friends a few weeks ago, but allowed my wine glass to be filled one time too many……(It’s only the second time in my life I’ve gone a little too far, and this time it was at least semi-accidental).
Rising to the surface of an empty lake,
a single leaf
like an unsaid goodbye,
too late for autumn.
Ripple-ringed dark waters,
light-lost, strive
to recall sun-splitting orange-gold
days of October.
Reflected forest, broken
by the troubled surface, promises,
touching leaf edge;
that gravity and time will turn again.
But I recall you smiling as we swam,
and memories dissolve,
like autumn leaves,
in the rain.
————————
For Hj.
Posted on dVerse
Red geraniums,
architectural ironwork,
and mute lace curtains.
—————
Nineteenth century buildings near Hyde Park, London. I went to Wimbledon yesterday, which was wonderful(!). This haiku was written over breakfast, looking across the road at a typical London townhouse from the 1800s. The sun is shining. I enjoyed trying to work ‘architectural ironwork’ into a haiku.
Fallen rose petals;
their warm wet scent embracing
lovers sensing rain.
—————
I have a pergola with a white climbing rose in my garden. It is beautiful, and it has rained this week. The rest is imagination.
Posted on Poets United.
This April morning,
my kitchen window is filled
with cherry blossom.
—————
Spring is here.
Contrails in blue sky,
crossing the green line dance of
quivering bamboo.
—————–
I planted bamboo outside our back door about 15 years ago. It’s now very tall – a wonderful plant.
Released by a single coal tit
(lost in the patient scaffold
of a waiting tree) whose song
softens pale sunlight, stroking
white façades and blinking windows,
and stirring me to cross the street,
perhaps.
It’s in the edge and ebbing fall, too,
of that hedge’s shadow
on a fading snowdrop
beside a dozing fox;
her orange pelt and gently pulsing chest
creating warmth (while she lies still)
for all – her eyes half-closed,
she dreams of cubs.
I close my collar to the cold,
pull on my gloves and stamp
impatiently, which does no good;
the grass remains un-grown, un-mown,
and damp;
pavements hard, earth dark, skies still.
But then I draw a single breath;
onto my tongue it comes,
and I can taste it too.
————————–
Posted on Poets United.
Chocolate on the cappuccino etched into “Che”,
and a languid jazz backing track.
Slow service, with a smile,
and battered paperbacks amongst eclectic art
of faded intensity
and forlorn hope.
A saxophone and trumpet on the wall,
and 1950s ceiling fan, expelling the English winter.
The Financial Times and concert flyers
on a battered piano with wax-stained candlesticks;
a chalked advert for a wine-tasting evening;
plain wooden tables
and assorted chairs.
Cigars at twenty pounds a go;
some customers chatting gently – most reading.
Thus fully-equipped to solve the problems of the world,
I prefer to forget time, and watch instead
the gentle sway of the waitress’s hips.
——————–
Perfect cafés are hard to find, or define. I feel this one does pretty well; it’s a regular weekend haunt these days.
Posted on Poets United and dVerse.
Watching a snowflake
against March skies, a robin
takes wing, with a twig.
poetry diary 