In the midst of this bitter spring, music for Holy Week plays out from the radio. My toddler grandson, once in intensive care in the aftermath of serious post-natal surgery, spins the black propellers of his small red helicopter ambulance, opens and closes the doors of his scarlet post van. He expresses delight with a range of vowels.
Deep , dark, resonant, experimental, the sounds from the strings and drums. Seven Last Words. Stabat Mater.
that white crocus
there again among the wood chips
I blow out my candle
note: haiku first published in Presence 46 - June 2012