through the trees

i can see the castle walls

winter moon

 the spooked cat

running under the wind

scratches to come in

 silence

from the kitchen

a click

 who done it

following the evidence

back to yourself 

 low water

the tide line joins the pebbles

to spell dream

 snow

the lights of the houses

on the river

 third mug of tea

the cat has fallen to sleep

to the soft music

 where the trees

had not fallen 

they built a bridge

 so many trees

have fallen on so many trees

days of the fungi

 the students

met the old monk

coming back

 going for a walk

to find another haiku

feet eyes brain

 some days

the tide is so low

you could walk to the sun

‪

 winter morning

the harbour glows with promise

of ships coming in

 clouds

left behind at sunset

this sleepy sea

 then that dog came back

now was he looking for you

the ghost of a thought

occurred immediately 

the mistaking of both

 the setting sun

the rising in the mirror 

of second thoughts

 icecream van 

two wafers and

a tuppeny dab

 winter wind

the rearrangement 

of marram grass

 once a year

this very same pool 

has frogspawn 

 it’s so frightening 

what caused the holocaust

could reside in me

 horsefly

when i kill you

i see my blood

 winter moon

how long for the cherry blossom

blue fingers and toes

 morning sunshine

twigs adopt the pose

of a day’s passing

 bay of thoughts

sometimes on the highest tide

sometimes the lowest

 snowfall

it is not as we thought

it is as it is

 just imagine

if you never imagined things

then this is all there is

 seething with seeds

the sun in this pomegranate 

burns my eyes

 low sun

long shadows

tall fun

 explaining 

that it isn’t a waste of time

is 

 reading them

all i have is me

write that down

 cat mewing

i’m not even sure if

the cat knows why

 through my tears

i see your tears

the west wind

 snow

changes

everything 

slow

ly

 snow

a the japanese garden

silence falls

 my third mug of tea

dawn seems a little early 

robin of the night

 i bloody swear it 

is to give my mind a rest

from writing poetry

 the year of the rabbit

frozen in the headlights 

of global warming

 laundry room

both of us hanging about

on the airer

 reading bikowski 

somewhere between schadenfreude

and jealousy 

 morning’s

musical sunshine

moves me

 sunrise

frost on the molehills 

mount fuji

 ivy berries

the snow birds are shitting

on a blue buddha 

 old age

the rock stars are dying 

my back aches 

 ten thousand prayers

at every falling snowflake

the black lake blinks

 global warming

buying a gas lighter for

the scented candle 

 snow

sea swim

soon

the the loneliness  

of a tapping button

in the launderette 

 on the boardwalk 

peeing into the marsh

water boatmen flee

 by taking control you lose control 

 catching the moment

it is a moment no more

it has escaped 

 winter sea swimming

putting more layers back on

than you took off

 moving

in the moving leaves

hedge sparrow

 the visiting cat

comes each day then goes away

food for thought

 the start

of the journey 

to the end

 a stream takes many turns before reaching the sea

 close by the bin

petals littering the floor

viburnum fragrans

 wait

the master’s raised finger

is your answer

 the good old days 

so sad in their demise

a panic of hail

 wood pigeons 

poking through snow sward 

curly kale

 eternal rest

eating our sandwiches 

on someone’s tomb

 in their opinion

the opium of the masses 

has dominion

 lisp of a sand tide

upon the morning’s dreaming

of a warm drink 

 hail

the icing on the cake

coffee time 

 the autumn

bled dry

leaves

 street light

half moon

half awake

 the night

hauled up at the moon’s

mooring

 so far falling red 

at the end of the world

that one last leaf

 after a rough swim

there is sand in my ears

seaweed somewhere else

 many a haiku

is started in india 

and finished worldwide

 dirty skylight

leaving the winter spider

eating up his days

 third mug of tea

gentle string music

rising steam

 ten thousand miles 

the tears of the moonstone

on this freezing night

 leaving

a piece of myself

in each offering

 this far

and no further

unless

 black tree

misty moon

 derelict chapel

a nail through my shoe

stigmata of time

 the rain

that stopped 

hasn’t 

 in front of the fire 

the creaking ironing board

falls fast asleep

 morning rubbish cart

flashing in the rain drops

on a black window

 silent order

of the temple grounds

warm feeling

 the very last verse

of the very last poem

is coming our way

 ten thousand thoughts

plinking in the fish pond

shall i venture out

 Ghandi clad

Mum said I went out with him

carnival float 

 the old lady died

buried alone with her gnomes 

the dog moved home

 yard red rain

above the black trees the sky

is lightening

 writing then

if they call it poetry

they are a poet

 India Pale Ale

sunset on the upper slopes

of the British Raj

 the sea breathes

as far as the eye can see

ice sheets cracking

 torrential rain

asking of the darkness

is my cup half full

 life talks

in the aches and pains

of old age

 the algorithm 

of the effort required

to master it all

 twitterati dawn

every time i look up

it’s a bit brighter

 inflation

the special offers

get smaller

 my doctor is dying

now who will cure me

i didn’t ask

 the black hens

are laying white eggs

on a sunny day

 these little poems

as the highest mountains 

or the deepest lake

 lanterns

slowly the bay takes shape 

moonrise

 climate hot flushes

the climacteric of all

our earth desires

 bees breeze

in bright yellow pantaloons 

sunny smiles

 all of these poems

venerating the dead

where do they take me

 perspectives

the prisoner looks out

the guard looks in

 nostalgia 

that long slow flat flow

over the weir

 shout loud enough

they’ll give you a complaint form

to fill in quietly 

 even this Monday

although the three kings are gone

east sky lightening

 come sit

until the sun has transversed

every recollection 

 having a pee

with one hand

eating grapes 

 thin spines

these old chapbooks

smell of fish glue

 the sign

to the woodland burials

is rotting away

 enraptured 

the claws of your poem 

has me

 nothing matters

there is a hole in the bucket

that’s life

 what came first

beauty or its replication

is this a replica 

 synchronisation 

the sea’s moods are changing 

to my mind

 dawn

the blood pearl drips

through the trees

 your food for thought

a feast in seasonal looking 

across the fields

 high wind

the sand is piling high

on the footpath 

 a footballer and

a pope laying in state

good lord what a state

 pinching

the bridge of my nose

at cross-purposes 

 the english cities

have filled the welsh valleys

with tears

 landscape

it’s nothing you said 

my stare

 gorse

buttering the slopes

waiting for the sun

 point

and the cat will come

patience patience 

 at the window

an airier full of clothes

on a wet day

 long-tailed tits

flock the hazel tree again

rain drops drip

 time

has eaten

the fallen tree

 cormorants

hanging the rocks to the sky

black sea 

gulls 

thrown upon the morning’s

feeding

 the name

you give to a place

is empty

you need to live in it

it needs to live in you 

 2023 in the UK "people are advised not to"

the leaves have flown

the blackbirds are fighting

spring in winter

 pipe dreams

washed of thoughts

drink deep

 the rearrangement 

of endless possibilities 

two twigs in a pot

 pigeon dawn

the ivy is turning red

on the bare tree

 the long haired cat 

is wearing the wind’s distain 

dragging a twigged tail

 sunrise on

the y axis of the

x axis of night

 secondhand book

there inside of page five

a pressed flea