Author: Pontvert

Time’s a wanderer,
and it never settles down,
and will not stand still.

I met it one day,
and confronted it, this time;
in a second gone.

The frost white as snow,
lay silently bewitching,
and holding my gaze.

Uncover tennis,
in an enormous white tent,
and mugs of coffee.

The day started well,
with much to do, getting done,
until I lost steam.

And it would not start,
the engine died, wouldn’t start,
and so, that was that.

My brain juice ran out;
need to run a top up in,
and over fill it.

I woke this morning,
to look out on a dark sky,
knowing it’s Friday.

Friday the thirtieth,
and not one, not three, but five,
things that have gone wrong.

Sci-fi and horror,
and that somewhere in between,
package holidays.

TV inspired me,
to write the above Haiku,
with all those adverts.

The bin was emptied,
and it felt like victory,
which I celebrate.

My pen ink is blue,
and the shape of the letters,
are formed easily.

If you don’t pursue,
what you really want in life,
you will not get it.

Music is drifting out,
across the fields to the trees,
that do sway gently.

The wind blows and rocks,
the raindrops on the clothes line,
that catch the sunlight.

The ground wet with rain,
shimmers in the car head lights,
distantly staring.

My mug of coffee,
hot and ready to greet me,
with slurp after slurp.

The ink is smudging,
and it is looking arty,
and words are the art.

We can not catch it,
just watch clocks and calendars,
for time’s elusive.

Light is refracted,
and sends it colours about,
and ever perfect.