Haibun 3 Poem by Jacqui Thewless

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.
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.

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.


so many dark nights -
even the day seems to listen
with a fox’s ear