always

April 29, 2015 § 3 Comments

hatsuse_300dpi

blossoms

many blossoms

with the warmth of spring –

still the old man dies

~

Image courtesy Akazawa Yoshinori

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cycle

June 11, 2014 § 16 Comments

stock-footage-studio-shot-of-water-drops-falling-on-white-gerbera-flower-against-white-background

water

between my fingertips –

everlasting cycle

 

PS. Some nice news! The literary journal ‘Ariadne’s Thread’ (www.ariadnethread.net), has just published a revised version of a 2013 blogged story, ‘The Man Who Loved Mountains’. Unfortunately, it can only be read in hard copy 😦

Image courtesy Shutterstock

Flux

March 17, 2014 § 15 Comments

DSC_0009

~

Ants build great empires

Spiders weave skeins of deceit-

Dead wood brings new life

~

PS. Just to let you all know that this has probably not turned into a haiku blog! I still intend to publish short stories and flash fiction, but the haiku just keep coming. For now. 🙂

Circle

December 9, 2013 § 13 Comments

Image

His mother was a wild creature and knew how to run. With the brown hair-like fleece of her feral descendants, she was living archaeology to the ancient sheep of the Asian mountains. Her son had slit yellow eyes, and slid into my world in the long grass when no one was looking. He was a good size and already at the teat when I found him. Feisty and proud with sharp, thick horns, I kept him as breeding stock.

That was eleven years ago. Every November he did his job. I put him in with the ewes, and five months later each one scraped a shallow bowl in the home field, lay down, and pushed out his lambs.

He stayed wild – he never let me know him. And he hated the sheep dog – teaching his brothers and sisters to scatter. Eleven is old for a sheep, and he knew. His age could be counted on the rings of his horns – his battle scars shiny and white on his forehead. He was a fighter – and had been fighting again with his younger brothers to keep his place in the flock when I found him. His body looked wrong, his neck crooked. Perhaps dislocated.

The man came with the captive bolt in a black case. I made myself watch. I thought the killing would be easy, but his skull was old and thick. The ram fell forward when the crack came. Then he got up. Teetered. Shook himself. The man fetched a bolt strong enough for a cow. A louder crack, and the blood came like a bung lost from a barrel.

I walked away to be sick.

Soon after, the lambs came. A brown ewe scraped and lay down to push her baby out. All day it wouldn’t come. I washed my hands and put my fingers inside. Legs. Two back ones and a tail. Sticky yellow shit and blood stains on my hands.

I waited for her to squeeze and carefully twisted the lamb out of her. Long and thin, it stretched out on the ground. With no breath.

I cleared the mucus from its mouth, its nose. Rubbed it gently. Spluttering. It shook itself to life.

The mother heard the life noise. A lick, a snicker. The only sound she ever made.

Any suggestions for improvements much appreciated…

Sartre

December 1, 2013 § 2 Comments

hourglass

‘The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.’

Jean-Paul Sartre.

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