Microfiction: Rain Shadows

I wonder if raindrops have shadows. Everything has a shadow. The rain must have a shadow too. I think I’ve seen rain shadows once, in my garden, but now I’m not sure. I look for them every time it rains. Mostly I see only light and water. But sometimes – in the grass, on a wall – I see them. Rain shadows. And I know they’re there.



Haibun: The Rain Comes

I try to see the ghost of yesterday. She doesn’t come. Not for me, anyway.

The window gives me a watercolour view of the garden, and yet the colours are missing, stolen. The trees are shadows in the grey. They stand stark and bare, unmoving. From somewhere water drips.

I turn back to my coffee. The steam warms my face.


losing you –
nothing glittters

Haibun (Kikobun): Wanderers

I spent two days and two nights with the gypsies. They were camped at the foot of the mountains by the lake. The air was crisp here, like autumn leaves. Come evening there was a distinct chill to it. The first night I sat huddled next to the campfire, unused to such biting cold. I began to regret coming here.

Then the dancing began. The dancers moved swiftly, their bodies twisting and swirling, bare feet stamping out a lively beat. The air became hot and energetic, filling with the quick notes of Manfri’s guitar. I watched the dancers move, mesmerised, until they became part of the natural world, shadows flitting in and out of the firelight.

The barrier between nature and mankind had disintegrated. I saw the moon dancing in the water, heard the wind laughing in the brambles. Even the trees had eyes.

There were no more seams. Everything had a soul and everything was my soul. I knew then that we could never truly be alone in this world.

guitar strings
the music
in her smile

Haibun: Invigoration

Colours popping everywhere. A burst of strawberry in the grass. Sky-blue petals splashed across the trees, a drizzle of honey among the reeds. The garden is ablaze with new life.

oh! to feel



The Last Rose Of Babylon


The Last Rose of Babylon sat beneath the willow tree. All around her was a dream of emerald. Floating in this dream were butter-coloured lilies and daisies like fallen stars. The dying embers of sunshine glittered in her hair.

Oh but if it could last, she thought.

She knew it could not.

Tomorrow the Persians invade.

The time for gentle things was gone.


(Image courtesy of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie)

Written for Sunday Writing Prompt “It’s All in the Title”