tonight Frank is hosting at #dversepoetspub and he has asked us to write a haibun about memory
The strawberry patch of my younger years held joy. Those little white flowers low to the ground as it warms up in May. A prelude to bowlfuls of juicy red fruit for topping breakfast cereal. For having smothered in ice cream after school. Memory of the hot, hot summer of 1976.
Before school emptying watering cans around fruit and veg plants. After school Mum throwing empty bowls at me, my siblings and childhood friends, fill these up from the patch. Me on strawberries, siblings on veg and friends on anything ready.
The flames they call me and others to the fire pit. To the pit to show me the flames dreams. Selling me the images and feelings they wish to share. I wish I could respond to each and every call of the fire. But life just keeps demanding that I live it. Stories do call from the flames. Craving the company of storytellers, I certainly do.
Here I am sitting looking for two hundred words while the world is asleep. Searching, seeking, rummaging and rifling my inner self for a tale to tell. Before the world awakes and demands my full attention. Grown they maybe but the family still needs dinner. My clothes still need washing and my home is looking oh so overly lived in. will I ever find these two hundred words for the Berkhamsted poetry society before todays living gets in their way. My head full of slow cooker beef stew and washing machine settings hiding any story of woe, wonder and excitement. Chasing stars and watching sunsets not included here.
Sorry to you all who were expecting a bit more from these words.
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