Yokoburi – dVerse Haibun Monday


I need windscreen wipers for my glasses and a windproof umbrella. My coat needs sleeves with elasticated cuffs to shield my wrists from the chill deluge. I need shoes that don’t let the water in, that are impervious to the puddles. I need to love the rain. I relax into the squall, lift my eyes to the skies, admire the lowering clouds, see them pregnant and heavy with fat, luscious raindrops, relax my shoulders and smile. My fellow commuters, marching head-down across London Bridge might think me mad if they took a moment to look up from their intense march towards the office, the coffee shop, the cafe, the next bus stop. But if they did take that moment to look around them, perhaps that might mean they were rejoicing in Nature in all her English summer unpredictability too?

Lifting my eyes

to the clouds over sky-line

I become raindrops.


This is my first attempt at dVerse Haibun Monday – and how apt! This evening the sky was cloudless as I left London, and it was beautifully warm. This morning – well, it felt like Autumn, with wind, intense rain and to top it all – yep, it was Monday. The haibun does indeed reflect what happened – I realised I was making myself tense and a little bit more than a little bit fed up with fighting the elements, so decided to go with the flow. And believe me, there was a great deal of water swirling in the air and on the pavements!

Thank you to Toni for hosting! I hope my offering is what she is looking for. I’m no expert at haibun, am a little ‘light’ on what a ‘proper’ haibun is like, but I think I’ve gone some way to achieving what has been asked for!

Yokoburi is Japanese for ‘driving rain’. Who knew there were so many words for different types of rain, as Toni kindly shares with us?

Why not join in, or if you don’t feel up to it, at least pop on over and read what others have offered up?

Fair Game

They swagger, these gifts of the gods
Draped in Savile Row
Handmade brogues squeaking
Signalling their advance
Sleek terminals flashing green and red
The latest billions to be made
Orchestrated by one perfectly manicured digit
A rarefied world, this domain of the trader
Tiger women diluting the testosterone just enough
To become the next female BSD.
(I don’t have the balls
In all senses of the word).
They all walk and talk a good game
Ride the highs and lows with aplomb
Possessing animalistic grace, a certain panache
Revelling in the glory, drowning the losses in Moët & Chandon
Or inside their bonus-bought classic car
Seats rubbed smooth with 90mph sex and cocaine
Shagging the pressure away in a City side street.
Rare beasts, these,
Stalking, hunting down that one trade
Chasing mammon, winner takes all
But I wonder, when it comes down to it
When I see those who drew the short straw
Carrying their belongings in a cardboard box
Incongruously shabby against their Cartier adornments
Leaving their ivory tower for the last time
Facing down the cameras as journalists hunt in packs
Trading titillation for the headline news
I wonder – do they think it was worth it, after all?


This week, Brian, our host at dVerse Meeting the Bar wants us to consider character – something more akin to penning short stories and novels, rather than poetry. Fabulous! I love a challenge!

My take is all about that much-maligned character, the City trader. I have worked in the Square Mile since last century (no, really!) and have met and seen a few in my time. Some are as bad as the press paints them, many are not. All of them have guts, that’s for sure! I haven’t based my poem on anyone in particular – consider it an amalgamation of many traits I have seen (in traders and other types) over the years.

I hope you enjoy my offering – and please do join us! The hosts all work extremely hard to make the community a success.

On Top of the World – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?


– On Top of the World –

I stand on the swaying platform. The wind is scratching at my cheeks, clawing tears from my eyes. For a second, I remember a hiking trip in the Cambrian mountains…

My heart jumps in my chest with fear and laughter as I slip-slide backwards, my feet losing their grip on the scree skittering far below. The echoes of our joy career all around as you and I collapse safely at the top, lungs burning, chests heaving with the effort. Life is rainbow-hued.

Now, everything is fear. I inch forward to the edge of the platform, scanning the seas as they boil below. I see the top of The Shard cutting through the oily waves, and the summit of Heron Tower in the distance. London is gone. You are lost to me, flotsam and jetsam – somewhere.

I steel myself, zip up my diving gear, check my oxygen tanks and mask. The time has come.


For non-Londoners, and non-Brits, here is information on The Shard and Heron Tower