A Haibun: Nothing To Do With Anything
Our town’s name has nothing to do with anything, like almost everything around here. Like Cowfold, they don’t fold cows. Or Handcross. Or Wychcross. Bear Green never had a bear. Or Pease Pottage, although that’s an exception, the soil clags-up like peas porridge when it rains. But we have our traditions, like when there’s a bright glimmer of something in the sky, just above the slant of the roof, we tell our children it’s Santa. Later, we’ll tell them it’s a Virgin flight from Florida where a princess lives in a castle. Our town, our town, it carries its poor on spindly shoulders, and most parents like being in the dark, except for when the pub was a flood of flames. It lit up the night sky. We all stood at attention on the street as the pub burnt nearer and nearer to the houses. There’s a fine line between peril and safety. The pub stood like a shadow for a year, and then it was reborn, phoenix-like. Same name though: Frog’s Hole. I have three memories from the year, none of them about that pub.
Months become moments
Life is fragments and flurries
Morning always comes
Written for go-dog-go-cafe The prompt asked that we look forward, our goals, ambitions for the new year. In truth, I have no goals for next year, other than to survive another year. I have no ambitions for next year, except to be as thoughtful and kind every day as my aches and disposition allows. But I will endeavour to make at least one person smile every day.
©Misky 2021 Shared with #amwriting on @godoggocafe Twitter
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