In response to a challenge, a tongue-in-cheek Gothic haiku …
Shadows not shadows
Soft rustle of parted silk
Pale skin in moonlight
On re-reading Joyce
(see 19th December)
I’ve returned to Ulysses, no longer a task but an enjoyment, and it is a delight. Perhaps ‘finishing’ has to be got out of the way. It had corrupted my perception and now I’m free. I may be some time.
On witnessing an assault
Though not generally a cruel person, the ease
with which she flicked the cat from the chair
had a certain barbaric, triumphant quality.
The family, ailurophiles to the core, experienced shock
as if a gardener had beheaded a favourite rose
or a priest displayed Tourette’s.
The feline was certainly not amused.
As I write, a bee, seeking sanctuary from the cold March weather,
lands an inch from my pencil.
He looks bit bedraggled; perhaps that’s what he thinks of me
though I’m probably too big to be seen.
I presume ‘He’ because it doesn’t look like a queen.
Up and down, he does a few press-ups, warming himself.
And off he goes,
looking no doubt for early dandelions or forsythia,
a rescue from this too early awakening.
Clearly not impressed by my writings.