Again a lovely poem Arthur and so interestingly joined together. I like the
hiaku form but the way you have inserted the prose really makes the poem
come alive for me. I live only a few minutess walk from open moorland too
and every time I think of of moving I also think of the easy access to the
countryside and I decide not to. bw Sally J

>From: Arthur Seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New Sub: Haiku Hunting
>Date: Sun, 21 Nov 2004 10:55:08 -0000
>
>Haiku Hunting
>
>
>
>Everyone has a favourite walk, although favourites change, like most
>things, with the passing years. Mine is a short flat hike across the moors.
>  My home is well up so I have little climbing to do and my old legs are
>grateful.
>
>
>
>Sunlight bright
>
>along the leaf-
>
>she smiles as I leave.
>
>
>
>             I make this walk at all times of the year to catch the
>changing colours. The first green flush and the long burn into winter. The
>wind is cold but the air is sweet and bright this fine Spring day.
>
>
>
>Smoke beyond Rivock -
>burning off the heather.
>
>March prepares for August.
>
>
>
>             The road is metalled at first, past the barking dogs, the
>raucous cackle of incongruous parrots, the sly needling of cats along the
>walls, their soft fall into the depths of unkempt gardens.
>
>
>
>Splash of crocuses
>
>in the garden of an empty house-
>
>'Sold' flaps in the wind.
>
>
>
>             I cross the cattle grid and stride along a muddy path to the
>first stile and a look back down the valley to the far Dales and the peaks
>dim on the horizon.
>
>
>
>The view clear over the shires-
>
>the river finds a way
>
>down the cluttered valley.
>
>
>
>             I am on to the moors now and the wind is sharp as a blade. My
>ears are nipped and my nose runs, eyes blear with tears. I seek out my
>handkerchief and tidy my face. A dead sheep melts back. The matted pelt,
>rot in the pale cradle of bones, the teeth stark in the ragged skull.
>
>
>
>With whirring wings
>
>a grouse clatters into the air-
>
>my heart leaps in its cage.
>
>
>
>             My curses, spelt in mist, pursue the panic of brown feathers.
>Cock carracarracarra cocococock! It natters and settles in the far heath.
>On a grey rock a hunched silhouette bends to unthread a life. Murmurs of
>the morning stilled.
>
>
>
>Beyond the moors
>and kestrel's searching beak,
>
>spring uncurls.

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