Haiku Book

Tied in tennis knots,
courting rackets, nets and balls,
learning to love all.

I am out training,
on a stress realise platform,
no point in running.

Running for a train,
but they all do look the same;
feeling wrong train shame.

Waking at sun rise,
and looking out to the skies,
and lone bird that flies.

Don’t you love mornings,
misty cold with rising sun,
when you’re wrapped up warm.

In cold morning air,
the rising sun stirs the mists,
silhouetting trees.

The beauty of clouds,
their patterns sublime drifting,
and ever changing.

Who knew that at Crewe,
I was napping, and that’s true,
and looked out to this.

Steptensons railway,
in eighteen thirty-seven,
came to Birminham.

New tracks to somewhere,
its bridge dangles in mid-air,
but nice finishes.

The train trundles on,
and Coventry passes by,
onwards further north.