Haiku Book

Ripples on water,
as fish move, are not the same,
as those from a breeze.

Things that delay me,
I find them so close to home,
looking at myself.

The thing about time,
it’s either here, or it’s gone:
live in the present.

I’ve nothing to say,
and my lips are not moving,
but I write freely.

I went off to town,
on the morning train I did,
and enjoyed the views.

London’s curious,
but not as much as the folk,
that are just plain strange.

I am from London,
born and breed I am legit,
south of the river.

It is cold sunshine,
bright and cheery but so cold,
that I ran inside.

I’m hiding away,
keeping my head and quiet,
with a mug of tea.

I have a string lock,
from a coat hook on the door,
catching the handle.

Simple mechanics,
that can satisfy the simple,
that I like to be.

It is Saturday,
and in a way I like it,
more and more each day.

Starting of again,
cutting wood, making mistakes,
relearning again.

I sketched it all out,
and I was checking it twice,
but it wasn’t nice.

I will start again.
this time with some larger wood,
that will make it work.

I paid a visit,
to Camden Winding Vaults,
and went underground.

The places I’ve been,
above and blow, I go,
to see the sights there.

I have been walking,
for several miles without stop,
and I feel it now.

I wish I could fly,
I would soar into the sky,
and look down on earth.

I know I can’t fly,
and I’m told it’s escaping,
from reality.

I do make mistakes,
and make remakes, or just steaks,
beaten nice and thin.

I do not shoot ducks,
or geese or things that might fly,
or even ground things.

The cold’s seeping in,
and like a strange chilling hand,
grabs at your insides.

The shadows like cold,
it makes them hard and life less,
places to avoid.

The old wood cutter,
said the trees could talk, he did,
and then he’d listen.

The wind through the trees,
blows without stopping or they’re,
caught in outreached twigs.

The ground caught the cold,
and holds it fast and locked in,
dead, but it will rise.

They rattled its cage,
and poked it was sticks and said,
‘wake up, and start the day,’

Tuesday glared at them,
and turned over defiant,
but soon dawn woke it.

It wasn’t easy,
the autumn skies never lie,
it’s getting colder.

The clouds gathered round,
and made promises of rain,
that finally did come.

Tuesday went to bed,
and closed its eyes so weary,
to sleep for six days.

The rain pools did come,
and the car wheels splashed through them,
wetting the pavements.

Just waiting on time,
it slows like a movie scene,
caught in slow motion.

The second are dragged in,
and each screaming for mercy,
before they tick on.

The minutes look on,
and watch a few in pity,
and like seconds go.

The hours stand strong
resisting the urge to gloat,
as the minutes pass.

The day hesitates,
time is gone and like the wind,
all too easily.

A fact, twelve plus one,
is a sure anagram for,
eleven plus two.

I do like numbers,
those prime, odds and even ones,
and the lucky ones,

A world set apart,
tends to be a personal one,
that we can create.

Here we go again,
and another week again,
with a cold Monday,

Those fuel shortages,
are hitting now, that’s for sure,
despite assurances.