Zen Haiku

Poem 2449

Seeing how
the bees come to the roses
mainly by colour.

Spilling its seeds
to the urge of spring
jacaranda husks.

in the closed fog
new- born lambs calling,
calling from the whiteness.

Windjammer storm
entangled
all hands in the sails.

Gentle breeze
grazing on the sea
a moonlit windjammer.

Winter light
the windjammer stripped bare
tied to her wharf.

Windjammer fog
back to my childhood
seeing a ghost.

Of summers past
the windjammer barnacles
tied to the wharf.

Sunset sinks
a brumby splashes through the river
to the cool green hills.

Dim subway
young police
half bent over the bag-lady.