Out in the courtyard, fruit trees are in flower. After the clean blue-greys of winter, there is something faintly lurid about the blooms. And yet these are pastels. Perhaps it’s the profusion of pinks and whites making an exhibition up and down the branches that appears unseemly, out of context, in this place of quietude. Jostling in amongst them are the showy ornamentals. Dripping wisterias and wax goblets of Magnolia peeling open exotic centres to intoxicate insect hosts and solitary blundering bees.
I seek simplicity, minimalist arrangements, the clarity of Zen but here it’s as though a dance troupe had suddenly taken centre stage, all giggle and froth and helter-skelter happenings.How pleasing the sound of bamboo brushing away the last petals as the advancing season restores greenery and calm. Just as now I welcome the sonorous call to prayer.
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers. From every bud and bloom, in the clamour of blossom, amongst riotous colour, is the unmistakeable intoning of a Gloria.
Seated in deep thought
behind shutters birdsong breaks
cuckoo laughs at me
A haibun to include Basho’s lines “The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.” for MLMM’s Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille