Almond tree in blossom
by the stone ruin
promises spring.

Cramped but fully formed.
the imago emerges:
a haiku is born.

Grey clouds shuffle east
and nudge the hills escarpment:
it's foggy up there.

Let the Spirit pour in,
empty cups serve no purpose
under heaven.

Satsuma plum in flower
and through a white lacework
peers the clear blue sky.

On a still summer night
a distant recall: was that
a ... mopoke, mopoke?

Dark clouds assemble
before drenching rain,
then golden wattle sunshine.

Between running early
and running late,
time runs away.

Grey stringybark needs
Tetratheca's bells to chime
lilac through the heath.

Desire lies waiting
in curves plump and smooth:
death adder poised to strike.

Beyond the hill's brow,
it's a downhill run
to a world of surprise.