From the moving train
your eyes flash from left to right
with the scenery.

The grey Arts Tower
against a dim pink morning:
Monet in Yorkshire

Two months old must be
some kind of optimum; you're
smiling in your sleep

Hand up to her face
as they part, to hide a blush –
that's one lucky boy

Bright motorway lights
promise a result; roadworks
say a goalless draw

The winter drizzle
turns the whole world grey and then
dusk remakes it blue.

From the pub window
the grand Don valley vista
unfolds like a plot

Four-year-old girl gawps
at teenage girl, who smiles back;
the world is OK

Suddenly the top
of the hill and the peak of
the wind's lashing chill.

Equally distant,
February and July:
neither is today

The wind has raindrops
on windscreens to push; I have
café table crumbs.

I arrive early
for the interview, drink tea,
proofread the menu

Cleaning the bare house,
all our stuff moved out except
baby, sound asleep

Keep reminding me
what it is that counts in life,
lazy pussycat.

Waiting for a bus,
tyres roaring through the rain –
the road's a runway

Just before we move,
the dark streets of Norton Lees
whisper: you'll be back

Days as dull as this
barely yield a syllable;
never seventeen.

Cat watches a bird,
decides it's too much trouble
and resumes his day.

On the darkened street,
a huge dog roaming loose and
running at the pram

A cyclist passes
while I walk, with iPod on:
perfect harmony

The laptop glows like
station lights; this haiku's the
last train out of town.

This verse replaces
the 3am one I dreamed
and promptly forgot

The frozen river,
gelid, mucky, motionless,
offers no haiku.

Strawberry milkshake,
or maybe it's candyfloss –
today's sky is sweet.

Glassy winter sun,
when you went down yesterday
did you hide the snow?

The gas sputtering,
economies collapsing,
the baby gurgling.

The bare house loudens
the bass in my voice and the
estate agent's shoes.

I play guitar and
watch my baby's clear wide eyes,
pure as a C chord.

What are you watching:
a cyclist, the postman, cars
or another cat?

Electropop stops;
I gaze through the window at
the synth wash sunshine.

Anyone would think
you don't know what day it is,
same old new year sun.