if we all came crawling through trench wire,
torn,
back into life,
would our politicians and leaders
listen
or would our message be smothered in mud
as we sink back
into despair?
our death
and our words
have not been enough
mud
Uncle Tom
on summer days
my uncle made
matchstick and paper boats
to float
on breezy bird bath currents
he was always smiling
but he wandered away
into the gloom
of the shuttered house
into darkness
where i overheard his story
told to my father
in faltering words
of shells
and bullets
and mud
and fear
and rotting feet
and friends
hung
like rung out washing
dying on the wire
i saw an old man
tears rolling down
a deep lined face
unashamedly
crying
Mud Child (a Haibun)
My first true love was earth, dry earth and water mixed, piling dirt in mounds, trying to shape the mud. Digging, digging, digging, squatted on the earth, pouring water in to make a captured pool. I watched it soak away.
Broken finger nails
Scrabbling at resistant earth,
Burrowing with worms.
Alone I worked day after day, shaded by the Yews, until the puppy came, near as old as I, and just as keen to dig. We worked on side by side, driven by curiosity, searching for the truth or an ancient bone. The earth flew out behind us as we dug the hole.
When would water rise?
Could we find the fearsome fire?
Could we reach the source?
Stopped by tangled roots.
Water ran between my palms,
Mud sucked at my feet.
We ran off to play,
Covered head to toe in earth.
We’d dig another day.
The Dreaming Path 