Photographer: John Donaldson

Haiku

Imagination:
that black crake softly treading
yielding lily pads.


Mud, and the day-grey
electric lamp – swallow’s nest
cupped, autumn empty.


And the buzzard turns
the sky, silent, far-seeing:
forest green, grey mist.


Mountain mists turn
to rain: then flying ants rise
in breaking sunlight.


That shrike, those weavers
– from dry tree top perches – hawk
the fluttering ants.


That tapping, dripping
– soft last rain on taut canvas –
the blessing of warmth


On the deck, quiet:
you read, I write and she knits:
thoughts like the raindrops.


Whole mountains have gone,
lost in the low mists and rain:
the world draws closer.


There is now no sun:
but waterlily flowers,
mauve in the rain-light.


Green cattle pasture
rain-moist: sacred ibises,
black and white, bow low.


Though all is silent,
raindrops, and a far birdcall,
still patter my heart.


I say after Donne,
patter my heart – let the rains come
and bring her blessings.


Now the mist drops low
and the rainclouds rise – darkly
the mountain shoulder.

 

 
– Brian Walter

Photographer: John Donaldson