Wye

seventeen wye river haiku philip harvey wrote in october 2014

earplugged high above sea her bramble of wires play unheard-of songs

window jar of shells wait to be tipped back into years’ sheer swirl and crash

inside her novel of cathedral life she forgets, for now, bush beach

one stick of bangalore incense burns down: time taken on this haiku

brain finds words for ‘waves’: inexorable, folding, arched, blooms, final, first

one rounded weed above sludge and leaves: the green light to clear the gutters

hair-skin-bone roadkill on the boulevarde: everything moves for shelter

it’s like the fridge: you only get out of it what you put into it

it’s like rosellas: you have no control over it, they just show up

carefree dogs chase wave foam ahead of owners, dawdling with uncatched leads

winter’s storm wreck chaos is viewed through springtime’s upright theodolites

river ripples, only seen by moonlight, meet tide only due to moon

meals lifted by grace, memories, red wine, coarse clicks of the peppermill

thinking no one sees, green bowerbird picks her fill of white waxflowers

sun transforms morning rooms, only trace of night the black of candlewicks

that slim slip of black inch gone down between stone steps makes mind think skink, skink

dragonflies tangent above our heads as we stand in hard surf rush