strawberry patch

tonight Frank is hosting at #dversepoetspub and he has asked us to write a haibun about memory

Strawberry patch.

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.

Strawberries picked,

Fingers sticky, bellies full,

Plenty left for jam.

Photo by Pok Rie on

© 22/05/2023 rog leach

midnight shift

#tiki’sguild. 27th may 2023.

Midnight at the,

makers of boing,

quiet rumble,

of extrusion.

The winding machines,

Whisper to the night,

Twang, twang, twang,

As they drop,

Into barrels.

Rattle, rattle, rattle,

Of the trollies,

Moving materials,

From extrusion,


Winder wrapping to


Midnight shift,

 at the leapfrog

factory tedious,

dull, monotonous.

Midnight in spring manufacturing,

A mind killing exercise,

Suitable for automatons.

© 19/05/2023 rog leach


hello all at #dversepoetspub.

Here is my quadrille for Merrill’s mirror prompt.


#quadrille, #reflections, #dversepoetspub.

 Am I dreaming,

Am I witnessing,

Russet red sunset over,

Autumn coloured trees,

 Strikingly Reflected in,

Unrippled water,

Beautiful nature’s bounty.



Beautiful nature’s bounty,

Unrippled water,

Strikingly reflected in,

Autumn coloured trees,

Russet red sunset over,

Am I witnessing,

Am I dreaming.

© 15/05/2023 rog leach

Here i reflect upon life
Idle reflections

under your x #quadrille175

sharing a grandparents love #grandparents

Thank you De for tonight’s Quadrille prompt of the wonderful word “map” here at #dversepoets prompt.

Under your x #quadrille175.

Put a mark on their map.

Leave something behind,

A time capsule wrapped,

 In a memory.

Give your children’s children,

Some buried treasure.

Like my grandparents left for me,

Marking the map of my heart,

With their treasure of love.

Not all treasure sparkles.

© 01/05/2023 rog leach

two hundred

Two hundred words.


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.

Life is for living,

always one day at a time,

adventures on hold.