Poetry Friday was yesterday, obviously, and there was no poetry, because I am on holiday and days of the week do not apply to the holidaying (unless they are trying to buy stamps in a very small village), and anyway, I honestly think the only person in the universe who gives a toss about Poetry Friday being on Fridays is the Editor [Oh, shut up - Ed.].
I wrote this a grand old whole five hours ago, while drinking tea and eating caramel short-bread after a hard day’s staring at Officially Interesting Things. And tomorrow I shall probably hate it. At the moment, however, I am pleased, because I’ve had a dry spell and written pretty much eff-all poetry for a while, and because despite the arguable lack of a proper caesura or kireji, it does use an appropriate kigo or season word, and it is about the wonder of nature in a wistful sort of way, making it a humble [very] low-ranking [exceedingly] contender in the Great Art of Proper Haiku. [pfff].
[What? It's not my job to like Reed's scribblings].
Botanic Gardens, Oxford
A white fish below
Drifting leaves and begging ducks
Waits out cold water.
