Candyfloss Clouds

Leaf 167 – Reflections

 

I wrote this haiku after seeing a succession of wonderful sunsets here in Tokyo this summer.

 

 

Pink candyfloss

clouds alight overhead

– each summer evening.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: PickPik

Me Time

Leaf 166 – Senryu (or witty, tom-foolery)

 

This senryu was written as a reflection upon the Instagram age in which we all seem to live nowadays. Whether we like it or not, the way we see ourselves and the world, and the way others see us in turn, seems to have changed dramatically. Our lives are recorded and shared in ways which were wholly unimaginable only a few decades ago. It’s something which I find quite hard to fathom, but at the same time (I suppose it’s the inner anthropologist in me), I find it is fascinating to see how others appear to navigate this ‘brave new world’ so easily and effortlessly, seemingly without a second thought.

 

 

“Me time”

multiple clicks –

changing room selfie.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: Goth N' Rock

A Stopped Clock

Leaf 165 – Reflections

 

Harry Wingfield - Alarm Clock (1971)

Living, and especially growing up, in the UK, I used to find British winters interminable. Mainly because they seemed to begin with the start of autumn and end with the last day of spring. Those dreary grey skies seemed to hide the sun for the whole of that time. I once heard someone describe it as “God putting the lid on England’s Tupperware for winter.” Happy to say, we very rarely experience “Tupperware skies” here in Japan – but that doesn’t mean I don’t still think about them from time to time.

 

 

Bare trees

and grey skies –

a stopped clock.

 

 

 

Rosy-Fingered Dawn

Leaf 164 – Reflections

 

This haiku was probably written with an unconscious allusion to the ancient Greek poet, Homer, in mind (see also, Leaf 162).

 

 

West wind shepherding

rose-coloured clouds

at dawn.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: PickPik

Bell on the Buoy

Leaf 163 – Reflections

 

A short way along the coast from the village in Cornwall, where my family always used to stay for our summer holidays when I was growing up, there was a buoy. It wasn’t easy to see, but it was easy to hear. Often, the somewhat mournful sound of its bell tolling, either in the wind or from the motion of the waves, would drift across the sea and up the cliffs. You could hear it, marking time with your footfalls as you walked along the coast road. I’m not sure what the purpose was of this particular buoy, it could simply have been a channel marker or it might have been marking the site of a wreck.

 

 

Bell on the buoy

tolling the turns

of wind and wave.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: PickPik

In the Olive Grove

Leaf 162 – Art Inspired

 

This tanka was originally written and posted on Bluesky as a response to a #vssdaily poetry prompt to write a poem incorporating the word ‘olive.’ For some reason, unknown to me, the first thing that sprang to mind was an image of the ancient Greek poet, Homer:

 

 

An old man sits unseeing

in the sacred olive grove,

telling tales of war and travel;

his voice seeing all, vividly

echoing down the ages still.

 

 

 

Photograph credits: The British Museum & Pixabay

Gallery Goers

Leaf 161 – Reflections

 

Art galleries are strange places. Oddly hushed, yet echoey. They can either be almost empty on sunny days, or bustling with people when it rains. Often white cubed walls with bare floorboards, or plush interiors with marble floors. People wander round, like sleepwalkers, awkwardly clutching coats and bags. They stand staring at paintings hung on the walls, or free-standing sculptures islanded in the centre of the room. I love art galleries, but I’m often distracted by the living, breathing artforms who wander through such spaces.

 

 

Gallery goers ...

 

Hearing

the self-conscious creak

of floorboards underfoot.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: Jim Winslet