sax solo
the long slow wail
of Wasted Years

exile

sometimes I hear
the language
of my home

in old songs
mostly just
a word or two

once
it seems
in every twenty years

I hear
someone who sings it
fluently

then turns
and walks away

[This is not haiku, but it's strongly influenced by haiku. ]

small hours
the hiss of tyres
on a wet road

evening rush
.............into
the autumn sunset

dismal night
sorting the recycling
from the rubbish

(this could be about either household or poetic waste, who can tell?)

after the deluge
a huddle of smokers
by the door

new coolness
a beer can clattering
along the gutter

curtains drawn
the autumn evening
closes in

by email
another poem about
failing to communicate

a bank of cloud
over
the city walls

the bright edge
of a cloud
that hides the moon

autumn term
a gold sequin
on the library stairs

no stars
just raindrops
on the window

morning fog -
but even so
the sun rises

afternoon rain -
from my window I see someone
at his window

morning mistiness
the delicate white
of old scars

behind the man
sweeping up leaves
leaves fall

a dark morning
the seagull's mew lost
in a siren's scream

in the crook
of a branch the curve
of a squirrel

fallen leaves -
the same pattern repeated
over and over