Your wayward paths
are leftovers of those
trickling down rains,
sent umbrella hunting
with father insisting
take two, there will be more
but water scarcity continued, in a town
which had clouds hovering every moment, threatening to burst skies
with a downpour scattering hills, trees and flowers, which had hardly bloomed. Azure skies of my dreams, how you could change colours with guile,
like the wily chameleon:
blue, black, grey, red
and my metamorphosis reaching the pinnacle of heights.

I collect in my mind
the concert
where we shouted
and danced

riverside avocado
and chicken lunches

travel to the larger
waters of the coast

hosting and holding
and living together.

You’d never be sorry
to see the wound or the
gash, in crumpled leaves
water trickling down
parched throats, thirsty
this isn’t a desert
this is a song
volleys dilly dallying

Like falling backwards down a dark,
spiral staircase and bouncing painfully off
many stairs and banisters on my way
until finally awaking to the light
upon the thick dandelion-seeded
bottom with a gasp and a childlike chuckle.
That’s what it was like waking up with you
for the very first time… no longer lost!

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

pieces of driftwood
answer questions
blowing out candles

More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.