Rain hums a dark song,
washing machine scrapes and drones,
bird tiptoes the roof

On a sunny day,
laid up with a heavy cold,
I hate irony

Stepping from my house,
stunned by the Don's vast valley –
keep lifting me up

Soft sound at midnight
on the conservatory:
raindrops conspiring

Marathon runners
after the race has ended,
taking the train home

The blinking cursor
offering the football scores,
toying with my heart

What could spoil this day's
perfect light? Only wasps and
telemarketing

Nothing makes echoes
in the haiku's still moment –
clap your hands to check

Strawberries and cream,
magnolia and tulips,
my stripy t-shirt

City centre strolls:
tapping of a walking stick
stands out from the crowd

Walking under trees,
it's my forward motion that
dapples sun through leaves

A cool, darkened room:
band practice on a hot day,
D chord shines like sun

A garden puzzle:
shower from a cloudless sky –
oh, apple blossom

A bee taps the pane,
seedlings reach out to the glass:
spring wants letting in

My bus window gaze
settles for an instant on
the tram driver's eyes

A dull spring day with
white blossom on a white sky:
there is always hope

It's a good vintage,
says the fresh-cut grass bouquet;
pop the cork of spring.

Sky of ochre, peach,
indigo, cyan and cream
and Town won one-nil

Just the two of us
on the pub's far table: me
and Murakami

baby monitor
crackling with reports from the
war on wakefulness

Sent to sleep by wine,
dreaming of exotic trains,
woken by the cat

Somewhere in the soil
a green unseen pepper shoot
splits the seed's tough case

A far corner of
the multistorey car park
makes it night again

Between the need for
this haiku and writing it,
a bright star came out

Lazy cat, asleep
on the steps up to the house,
guards us from nothing

My bare feet speak to
the dark house, up at midnight;
the floorboards reply

The look of surprise
on the bouncer's face because
someone's smiling back

Midnight, Friday third
of April, twenty-oh-nine,
desireless at last

Streetlight flickers on,
daytime paces back a shade,
Thursday packs its things

On heaven's hen nights,
backs already bearing wings,
what do angels wear?