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Pocketingthe Tidea collection of haibun

Diana Webb

DDiiaannaa WWeebbbb published stories for youngchildren before becoming active within theworlds of haiku and haibun. She derivesmost of her inspiration from the area of theMole Valley in Surrey where she now lives.Her small grandson has proved the sourceof several pieces of recent writing and manyexperiences from Diana�s own earlier yearshave sprung up too.

She likes to think of the haiku withinhaibun as small islands within the widerflow of words which make up the prose.Haiku as �isles of tranquiliity� is a phrase shelikes.

2In these pieces the 4feast of Epiphany5moves out into the fields where the beautyof rose windows is apprehended again in theflash of a kingfisher. 4Alleluia5, the poet criesas in moments of wondrous sight matterbecome mindful.3 1 Paul Matthews, poetand educator

2The superb control of tone, the subtleinterplay of rhythm, sound and meaning,the acute sensibility with which she garnersstories from many sources combine in aconsistent text...The accompanying haikuare luminous and elegant in their simplicityand wisdom .3 1 Patricia Prime, Kokaku

Pocketingthe Tide

a collection of haibun

Diana Webb

Alba Publishing

Published by Alba PublishingP O Box 266, UxbridgeUB9 5NX, United Kingdomwww.albapublishing.com

© 2013 Diana WebbAll rights reservedNo part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,or transmitted by any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permissionof the copyright owners.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-9572592-9-4

Edited, designed and typeset by Kim RichardsonCover image: Diana WebbPrinted by Ashford Colour Press, Gosport, UK

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

AcknowledgmentsMany of the pieces and poems in this book were previously published in thefollowing magazines: Blithe Spirit; Presence; Time Haiku; Haiku Quarterly;Frogpond; Modern Haiku; bottle rockets; Heron’s Nest; Contemporary HaibunOnline; Haibun Today; Simply Haiku; Modern Haibun; Tanka Prose no 2 andRed Moon Press Anthology. Seasonal Lights was one of the winners in theBritish Haiku Society Awards and London à la Japonais received anhonourable mention in the Kikakuza haibun contest.

Contents

Preface 4

1 Towards the Pebbled Shore 5

2 True Image Pictured 15

3 Stronger than a Flower 23

4 As Waves Make 33

5 But a Little Moment 41

Preface

Fourteen Lines

‘as waves make towards the pebbled shore...’I’m reading Shakespeare’s sonnets by the sea.They tell of our lives’ brevity,‘...action no stronger than a flower?’

‘Holds in perfection but a little moment...’Catch it, in span of a breath – one verse,As small seeds on the breeze disperse,‘My true image pictured,’ each syllable in ferment.

horizon boats-a cow parsley hazeshimmers

violin notesbeyond beach traysglimmers

Note: Line 1 from sonnet 60; line 4 from sonnet 65; line 5 from sonnet15; line 8 from sonnet 24

Towards the Pebbled Shore

6

Postmarked

your distant island—waves of whispered lightthrough common reed grasses

You were always the one who wanted to see the world, while Ipreferred to stay close to home. And I‘m still here. I find newgrains of surprise along these well trod footpaths round theoutskirts of our town. The leaves are falling along the rivermargin, to the place where that sudden view always startles.

mist on the hills—Traveller’s Joy just turningto Old Man’s Beard

7

Scene

Along the river and through the valley, elder bushes are in bloom.Men and women stand on the paths between with tall whitebuckets, harvesting clouds of petals for fragrant cordial. Curves ofthe hills form the horizon, sometimes clear-cut, sometimesfluffed with mist.

froth of the weir—in the down of the swana new cygnet

8

Quill

flurriesunder the willowspangles of light

I bring home from my walk a feather, filaments of crystal like adance of frost against a window pane. It whispers on the surface,conjuring up a lake long frozen over, thaws it softly into waves ofballerinas, childhood idols, all bewitched to curved white waterbirds. And now these mornings by the river...

9

Summer Diptych

They gather at this rural landmark, an hour’s commuter journeyfrom the city; men in ill-fitting trousers and faded sunhats, ladiesdraped in scarves, children in pink frocks with matching shoes,determined folk in brogues. Centres of attention, the butterfliesflit from flower to flower.

drifting towardsthe summit of Box Hilla thistle seed

They gather at this inner city landmark, an hour’s commuterjourney from the downs; men in ill-fitting trousers and fadedsunhats, ladies draped in scarves, children in pink frocks withmatching shoes, determined folk in brogues. Centres ofattention, the pianist’s fingers flit from key to key.

drifting towardsthe heights of the Albert Halla thistle seed

10

A Wreath for Summer

red hollyhocks shiftagainst the bluewhite butterfly

A few days before the Celtic festival of Lughnasadh, when wheelsof fire were rolled down slopes to show the sun’s decline in thecycle of the year, helmeted figures encased in Lycra speed alongthe tarmac surfaces of Surrey, striving for success. Their tyre-ringed spokes whizz nine times round the bends that entwine thelocal hill.

cuttingbetween the cloudsa lone swift

Flags are out, some people draped in them. There are candyflossstalls, kids with antennae juddering with stars, roundabouts, hotdog and burger stands. Music plays; steel bands and Morrisdancing. Men in fluorescent tabards lean against the barrier,adjust their shoulders. The road is closed.

away into nowhereairborne swirlsrevolve

11

Bliss

A few seeds are still left on the lime tree. Against the cloudlessazure of the warm October day, they rustle through the sway ofturning foliage. A blue balloon has lodged high in the branches,pearly surface glinting in the sun as slowly air returns to air. Fromtime to time, a small winged moon whirls down and lands with awhispered clink.

old benchwrought iron ends all rustedcolour of the leaves

12

Magic

Listen. Here and there a leaf tip touches down on water, drifts byon the flow. Picking one that rests among the roots that line thebank, I stroke the surface of a tiny barque with pelt stretchedover its skeletal veins. Someone else is present. Motionless, thecreature stands to one side of the arch between the woodedislands, eyes black as balsam seeds, yet windows into mine; earsupright, tapering towards the branches where the leaves let go...

crossing the bridgea deer merges with stone—the span of his leap

13

Concerto

crescent moonthe cloud around itjust a feathering

Clad in his best white shirt and black-tailed dinner jacket, thebusking violinist plays a Vivaldi accompaniment to the gatheringwings of dozens of pied wagtails in a small town centre tree. It’sraining a late January scotch mist. As bow moves to and fro acrossthe strings, the birds flit back and forth through gleaming twigs –shift, settle, shift, flick, whirr. The musician pauses, his recordedorchestra switched off. All the snow –feathered members of theavian ensemble poise high in the darkening blue backdrop.Concerto of the magic tree stands silver-grey, a stave with silentnotes inscribed in filaments against the night.

the moon’s arcshines—a squeakechoes

14

15

True Image Pictured

16

The Gate

black chickensscratchat silence

Near the beginning of his epic journey, Turner wanders the NorthDowns of Surrey. With a keen eye for architectural structure, hesketches a barn, a cow in the bottom right hand corner within onequack of a fleeing duck. It could be this barn. Could be any barn...

dappled moonrockof a horse’s coatbeside a mottled wall

from one pointed eara flick of shadowagainst stone

all the wavesin one tossof a multi-stranded tail

17

Day Out

‘He always carried a pencil in his hand while travelling.’

Sketches by Turner are on display with watercolours, some not‘finished’. Many delineate buildings. One is mere brushstroke ofsome chance trick of air. All natural light from the bright winter’sday is blocked out from the room to prevent more loss of hisprecious hues, some newly discovered in his lifetime. Prussianand Cobalt blues, Viridian. Surfaces scratched with his rightthumbnail to let spots of light shine through.

Two small boys with their teacher are having a go at copying hiswork, as he was once encouraged to copy the work of others.

‘Which one shall I draw?’

‘You’ve got five minutes, then we’ll have to go.’

Downstairs, in the gift shop, more school kids are gatheringsouvenirs before the coach arrives. They count out spendingmoney, pick up postcards, swarm in a disordered queue aroundthe harassed merchandise attendant.

‘Do you have any more pencils like this one please?’

bare willowsspiderthe fading sky

18

Spectacles

She sits back in her chair as pair after pair of lenses comebetween her eyes and the words just placed before her.

abound here alwaysthe poor birdshow tame they are

It leaps from dark print on white, a moment magnified.

of the hedgenestlingas it were

‘But this is poetry,’ she cries. The optician looks quite startled.

delicate tracerya stray hip or hawfor the birds

‘OK. Just reading glasses then. I’ll write out a prescription.’

She climbs down from the chair and watched by the people in thewaiting room, wanders into her very own forest...

perchedin the middleshadow of a wren

Note: the haiku here are ‘found haiku’ extracted from reading materialin ‘N.V. Test Types’ – ‘Sussex Vision’ used in the local branch of a wellknown optician chain and taken from the writings of Richard Jefferies.

19

Study in Sky and Leaf Tints

Points of silver birch in variegated form are dipping towards earthbefore a spire which pierces into blue. This is the church whereRalph Vaughan Williams helped make music, down from the hillwhere words of the lark ascending leapt from a poet’s pen, laterto soar in notes our great composer wrote for the bow.

on a garden seatveins in a dropped gold leaf -the slip of shadows

20

Vitreous

red on yellowwords of a wayside tract—poppies in sunlight

The church was quite devoid of it. Altar frontals, chasubles andcopes embroidered in the colours of the church’s year, bruise tintto bruise tint, Advent across Christmastide to Lent, then Easter,Whitsun flame run through with festal gold until the verdantstretch of Trinity. For requiems, the fabric dark as the nave atnight before the sun’s first ray. But no stained glass.

vaulting of Yarrow—all the clear raindropsin the grasses

21

Unlocking Eden

Ash keys—a childhood gardenopens

The grounds of the convent where I went to school had manytrees. We wandered through on nature walks, learned theirnames. Sycamore. Holm Oak. In spring, within the shade ofboughs that hung across the front lawn just behind the wall, wewatched a statue of the Virgin crowned with May. On the wayhome, along the road, there was a small iron latticed bridge thatspanned a narrow waterway. This space where I sit now,surrounded by the green of later summertime, was also once aplace of nuns. A stream runs close, its waters joining those fromlong ago.

round the rimof an old brick wellthe odd splash of light

22

Leoconum Vernum

The perianth, segment elongate and white, hangs from thepeduncle. Sepals and petals (calyx and corolla) dip towards theearth, containing space within their concave, open-endedstructure, stamens (filament and anther) suspended from thecentre.

sunlight strikesthis small bell of a flowera white-gold wave

Graupel (hollow column,needle, sector plate, thin hexagon anddendrite) fall, and on colliding with the droplets within clouds,they fracture, making new particles which fragment in chainreactions. As they descend, the large number of ice crystals thusformed adhere to one another.

a chalicesipping from itselfSpring snowflake

23

Stronger than a Flower

24

Seasonal Lights

days of spring rain—a pattern in rainbow yarnfor an unborn child

Convent educated, I still find meaning in the stories, peace in thesacred places. The women move quietly in corners of variouschurches, not wishing to disturb me as I light my votive candle.Sometimes, one of them apologises for someone else’s chatter.

neonatal care—feeding my sandwichto a cygnet

Nobody seems to mind the stranger creeping in from time to timeto take a cylinder of slim white wax out of the box, ignite the wickand place it in the dark iron ring among the other flickers.

baby’s op day—a conkergleams from its shell

So many flames that dance with prayerful energy, send positivehealing waves, or just a flare of thankful joy.

first frost—buying a tiny coatstriped with sky blue

Towards the year’s end, I tiptoe in as usual. The women are busywith polish and winter foliage. Not yet in full view, waiting in thevestry, ready to be brought out at the appropriate moment, Icatch a glimpse of the familiar nativity figurines. Again, as I leave,one of the women smiles and whispers, ‘I hope we didn’t disturbyou.’

25

Christmas Eve—amid the coffee shop hubbubmy grandson gurgles

26

Ungilded

The day when medals are awarded at the prestigious Londonflower show. At last the sun comes out and we can spend time inour own small patch of green.

the baby sits upBuddha-like—just one small flower

27

Under Cover

sudden heat—the honeysuckle’s shadowon the sunshade

The baby lies on his mat beneath the creamy fabric coveredspokes. He stares at the clear blue sky. Leaves rustle.

moment shared—on the sunshade’s undersidea dark moth flutters

28

Undulations

The early afternoon sun illuminates the globe. Through slats inthe blind, three shards of light streak across the oceans, Indianand Pacific. The washing machine chugs on.

sleeping baby—knitted rows of his blanketrise and fall

29

Sway

Over the footpath’s curve across the bridge, an obstacle, formedof fronds from the bank below hangs in our way. Softly we swishthrough. ‘Wil–low.’ I balance out each syllable. Say ‘willow,willow.’ His smile reflects the water’s gleam beneath.

to and frothrough an Indian summerthe playground swing

30

Pocketing the Tide

towards the seasilver surfaces of leaves—his hair in wisps

Picked from the shingle ridge, I hold in my palm a smooth, whiteheart-shaped stone, a poem paperweight. Sat by the windbreakwall, he tries to munch on one with his two tiny front milk teeth.

the swish swish swishof all the little waves—first syllables

From a couple of miles along the shore, on the far side of theriver’s mouth, my earliest memory returns; the beach hut aroundwhich I plodded endlessly, long gone to driftwood, a shimmer ribsthe surface, pearl and plain.

againand againeach pebble

31

Twelfth Night

Before I go out on my walk, I listen to music for the feast of theEpiphany. This is the day when wise men come to discover thechild, the time when the source of wonder emerges out of hishiding place, ignites the first spark in the world. The liturgy seemsmeaningful.

my alleluiahstartles the dog walkerwinter kingfisher

32

33

As Waves Make

34

Shifts

I look out over a suburban garden-scape, each hedge like a roughcut slice of cake with its glisten of thick white icing. Soon, hereand there a window shines out lemon against the paler light ofsnow. Softly again, the flakes begin to fall. Buddleia twigs point,sway a little, becoming like witches’ fingers, casting the spell ofthe season deeper; down through this almost motionless worldto the day I turned sixteen, kept home by the freeze as now. Inquest of a magic garment to keep me snug, my mother busy fordays with a close-ribbed pattern and yarn of my choice called‘moonstone.’ She brought it up to my room to surprise me withthe gift of its swift completion. Too tight for me now, kept safe ina plastic bag, I treasure it as memento of her skill with knittingneedles, the glow of our wintry isolation.

soundlesslysettling in the darkmoths

35

Sceptred Isles

The bus stop by the roundabout stands out against the dusk, asmy mother tells me on the way home from school, ‘The king isdead.’ A few months on, a gilded model of the Coronation coachcomplete with footmen dressed in red and eight white horses,nestles in the pile of our front room carpet. I learn new words;‘anoint’ and ‘orb’.

Now, on the far side of the Thames, late on a bleak afternoon, I’mwaiting for the 465 from Kingston. Ignored by shoppers withbulging bags, I focus on a stone. Surfaced with lichen, it stands ona plinth, encircled by sharp iron railings. Giving this place itsname, it was used in the throning of sevon Saxon monarchs.

perched starling—all the jewelsIn St Edward’s Crown

36

High Tide at Sunset

On the promenade above the Thames, on London’s South Bank,a few of us toss coins down on the shore. A man has beenworking there all day at the craft he knows best. Around him,structures designed by illustrious artists, rise in all directions, wellknown landmarks; Blackfriars Bridge, the Oxo Tower, andsurmounting them all in its gleam of glory, the dome of St Paul’s.Time for tea as the afternoon’s bright sunlight fades and the airgrows cold. A Remembrance Day poppy lies at our feet as we gripthe chill rail and let drop one last coin.

damp materialsslipping through-all the veinsin the palmsof his hands

her hourglass figuresculptedof sand—a leafticks down

a spadeis a spadeis a spade—all those deep furrowsfor her hair

beneathher tranquil smileso many dreams awashaway with herthe waves

37

Icon

Picnic on my lap, I rest against the roots of Britain’s tallestrecorded Plane tree, measured in March 1864, 123 feet high and20 feet in girth, then likely to exceed 200 years.

Now all the city’s plane trees spread their shade this hot Junelunchtime, along the banks of the Thames, past all the famousbridges, Vauxhall (into theprecincts of the Tate) then Lambeth,Westminster and Waterloo.; through pathways to the love-in-the-grass spots of Hyde Park and all the dusty pavements withtheir sometimes posh and sometimes shabby cafes; the sunthrough overlapping green now almost at its zenith.

rice noodles –ripples cast on the barkintertwine

38

London à la Japonais

My first time eating out Japanese style. I wear shoes that don’tcause sweaty feet. But this is not that kind of place. Fully shod, wesit on chairs around a normal table, disposable chopsticks set forfour. I don’t eat meat or fish so my choice is limited. Advised bymy host, I plump for vegetable tempura and soba noodles. Bothitems come accompanied by bowls with sauces where they canbe dipped. A beaker of tea arrives as well. My host gives me fullpermission to make a mess and request a spoon and fork. Half thenoodles end up in the tempura bowl and I take a gulp from thedipping sauce, mistaking it for tea. But no one notices, or if theydo it doesn’t matter. As we walk away along the rain drenchedpaving stones of Regent Street, I wish I’d put on shoes that havea better grip.

after the shockof horseradishsplashed by a wave

39

St Cedd at Bradwell

skylark notesalong the sea marginsnail shells

He came down south from the holy isle of Lindisfarne, almost thelength of this priceless gem’s East coastline, a monk alreadyskilled in Celtic knotwork, pattern that spirals in and out with nobeginning, end, exit or entrance. This place, rising above cocklespit and saltmarsh, where estuary meets sea, where suddengleam of tide meets sky.

40

41

But a Little Moment

42

New Release

not in the future is the haiku always now it strikes as morningsunlight polishes the grassblades into steeples echoing eachshining tip in spiralling polyphony of birds beyond the lime treefeathering out its barely sprouted twigs against unboundedshades of intense blue...

grain of the fence aflutter comma butterfly

43

Interlude

‘Spend time with kids,’ said Basho. ‘Do what they do.’

Pushing a thirteen month old, I begin our usual routeencompassing the willow. Towards the recreation ground, westop at the kerb, and after pressing, wait for the green man’s lightto shine. We cross. Then down the path that leads to the yellowgate, a ride on the springy horse and also on that pendulum oftime, the barred box swing. Out through the second yellow gate,we pass across the football pitch. ‘Autumn.’ I say. ‘It’s autumn.’

sweet wine—the touch of little fingerson damp maple leaves

In the grass are nestled fruits of the horse chestnut tree. ‘Not foreating.’

juggling conkersone, two, three—the gleamof his dark brown eyes

Up an alley behind the petrol station, berries red as sunset, peepthrough railings opposite a wild unweeded area.

vertical route—all the time to marvelat a snail shell

Home from our travels, we tuck into his mummy’s batch ofbaking, a recipe that blends both chocolate and marrow.

each crumb—the furrows round and roundthe cupcake case

44

sun on the water-at the canal boat windowa cat’s gold eyes

a long intervalbetween joggerscherry petals

white spotson a brown butterfly’s wing-the baby’s toes wave

glazed bowl in the window –springing from stone stepsa celandine

shadowed earth-sunlight stretches outon the dozing pig

hedgerow frosted with memory cow parsley

45

going for a songmy Venetian glass goblets-poppies at sunrise

trailson the rest home roof slateswisteria

‘twinkle twinkle’the little girl sings-dandelion seeds

flow of the brown river deer after deer

across dappled light a snail’s shadow

feast of all angelsa cobweb hazeon the michaelmas daisies

46

conkersdew-gleamed in my palmthe web dissolves

a bunch of lavenderdrying on a sill—the backs of stained glass saints

where the skylarkdipped with his songthe sparkle of frost

scent of balsamshapes of geeseheld in the mist

that white crocusthere again among the wood chipsi blow out my candle

47

Learning Curve

The haiku workshop is in full swing; a few examples set out fordiscussion—syllables; season words; lots of space; surprise.

A latecomer is expected who will need to use the lift with doorsthat open on our upstairs venue.

During a hush, we hear a sound within the shaft. All eyes focus onthe silver doors. Slowly they slide open. A white-haired figurewith a stick emerges:

‘Is this the Residents’ association?’

homefrom homea thistle seed

48