wildflower meadow
the picnic bench
becomes an anvil

stone garden
reflecting leaves
riffle a stream

deep autumn
the moss has made
a bed to die in

between the shells
something summer
left behind

Ginst Point, New Year

We walk towards an estuary

Where three rivers merge,

And I stumble in the dune slack,

Mud on ripped jeans,

A sign of things to come.

Our movement spooks

A flock of plovers,

The tide drew out to shining sand,

As you ask if animals die of old age,

Only if the predators don't get them first.

In your photographs,

I'm a man time is stalking,

The years creep,

Like a punt gunner,

Carrying the blunderbuss,

That fells a clutch of geese,

Amongst the flotsam,

We collected together,

Someone I trust,

To pick up my broken pieces.

___

the chapel goers
hurried inside
winter rain

#senryu 

New Year's Day
piss and rain spill
from a chip tray