For once we are done. No more barely, oats or wheat left upon these fields. Once again I’m chattering on about farming, but for good reasons this time. We’ve finished harvesting before August! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a year when my family has achieved this. [We did have a lot less in the way of cereals this year which helped.] Anyway, for those of you who have hung in over the years you might remember last August when I tried and for the most part succeeded in writing a haiku each day of the month. Well I’m at it again guys! Apologies if you hate haikus. For those of you who love them feel free to join in! Prepare for the haiku tsunami!
Be it fair or be it wet, sun’s up St. Switun. Forty days of what await?
My bar shift ended, car keys hidden in handbag fingers smell like beer.
Laptop on last legs, struggling to find internet, but holding on yet.
“They are sure?” he asks, his hands folding around her, not sure what to do.
I’m giving it up. All the worrying that is. … Like hell that will last.
Just one of those nights, so infuriatingly, utterly, awake.
I thought I’d go with a Pleiades for Day Seven. It’s a seven line, one stanza poem formed by Craig Tigerman. The first word of each line has to start with the same letter as the title. Turncoat Trueman was the trusted sort. Trusted till the noose crept round his neck. Turns out his sister weren’t no blood, tart had sweet-talked him for plans. Told all the secrets she’d pulled free to spies and official men. Trueman was the trusted sort. Now Trueman’s dead.
Memory Shake off words said too soon in fear, seeking old safety. There’re no footsteps, no roads to follow back, time consumes all. Everything we’ve seen now sits behind mottled glass, morphed and distorted. Memory is funny. We cannot pick and chose, only lucky dip.
Eyes drift towards bed, is it time for sleeping yet? No. There is work yet.