The cranes cry to the cov’ring cloud.
Do you hear?
Notebook completed; page un-blanked; th’caress of wind-soothed heat.
These pages three, in their loose ‘n blank-lined state, are, together, a haiku.
Poles of gold; bridled porcelain.
People-watching; people, watching me.
Over the water, w’thin the waves of crashing flame, I sit ‘n write.
T’was where I was standing, with Molly wavin’.
With pub fire calling, its warmth tempting all in, Molly, through the rain she yet led.
We must face each fireless night.
Neurotaclismic chasmmind find pain in memorandemonia
The cold wind lifts these leaves.
In confinement – self ‘n solitary –
there sits a child.