A fine rain falls as the two of us stand quietly on the path before going indoors. Joan is pointing to the snowdrops: I’m listening to the lively sounds of birds singing inside the hedge, when, all at once, we hear a single, startlingly deep, loud, rook’s croak. <br />Joan turns, quickly, points up into the sky, her arm behind my head: Look! There he is! Can you see him? I follow her directing finger, peer across the distance to the branches of the giant fig that grows by the barn - another croak! – but I can’t discover the source. Look! He’s moved! Joan’s sense of everything in this landscape is almost uncanny: ubiquitous, laser-like, sensitive, precise. <br /> <br />We spend the day by the fire; chatting, reading. She lets me fall asleep, and when I wake I’m astonished to find her standing in silence at my elbow. On looking round, the bay branches are already scratching at a black window. While Joan cooks supper, I stand on the wide doorstep leaning on the closed front door. The dark is almost absolute, except for the strangely mesmeric slow winking of solar lights, lining the garden path. <br /> <br /> <br />so many dark nights - <br />even the day seems to listen <br />with a fox’s ear<br /><br />Jacqui Thewless<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/haibun-3/
