JUNE RAINS (haiku/haibun cycle)
Sudden gust of wind.
Rain-wet face.
These grey, empty streets.
These grey, empty streets:
I do not know their names.
They do not know mine.
A dream in cold dawn.
Too many words attached to memory. A posy of complaint, shades of all the colours of melancholy. Cast down, forgotten, they shall dissolve, mulch for future centuries. Beautiful air locating magical symbols. A play with syllabic sweetness, a river of sanity too far to touch.
A dream in cold dawn.
Somehow choosing a role
No-one else will have.
Is there a moment, a time, when each one of us decides our degree of visibility? Do we slip, collecting the well-worn clothes of a vacant consciousness, into comforting roles, familiar, mapped out? And so they adhere, become so owned. The first and the last in the queue. The sensible one, the designated driver, the quiet one, the strange one.
No-one else is here.
Squabbling sparrows
Scattering blossoms.
Rain-wet garden.
The colours have swiftly changed from the brightness of May to the weighed greens of June. Elder blossom is the punctuation, and the delicate scatter of wild roses. The bindweed curls, the honeysuckle prepares its longing fingers. The sun breeds cloud, sucks moisture and breathes storm.
No-one else will know
This one silent moment.
Rain wet garden.
Rain-wet garden
Flowers weighed down.
Unavoidable sorrow.
Unavoidable sorrow.
Thoughts falter.
The low-slung cry of swallows.
Low-slung cry of swallows
Steady rain
Strange emptiness.
Strange emptiness
Fills with peace.
Scent of wild roses.
Scent of wild roses:
Though they bend and weep
They know this rain a blessing.
—–
simonhlilly 