the grass has gone blonde (and died), the trees are hanging down and the black earth is cracking open. it’s been a month and half. we hate the weather guy but look one-eyed for his divination of chook guts, of fish guts. the map is vivid with ochres and vermillion (again). his hands cross the isobars — see here, a chance of rain but by evening we curse his name and all his type, spit into the dust. Vladimir and Estragon are pushing a shopping cart up a hill the wind ever against them — this way Didi. no this way. the dark comes soon enough and we incline to the sound of birds flapping in the dog’s water, Olive’s cough and stones on the roof.

the autumn wind brings
the ringing of the mattock
‘gainst the frozen ground

Haibun on ‘an early frost’ (kinda) for Dverse where Victoria is hosting. And here’s Waiting for Godot – for some autumnal absurdity.

11 thoughts on “waiting

  1. This is embroidery; stitches going in here, in there, slipping in and out of one thought, one location, straight into another to form an image. You’re very clever, Peter.


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