Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
British Haiku Society. Artwork by Helen Robinson
This is the dangerous time, sky clouding:
lifesavers on the alert, intermittently moving the flags,
shoals of swimmers still keening the fray.
Only a narrow stretch of ocean left now
between the signposts, the spume growing wilder
lifting more boldly - you imagine yourself drawn in,
tugged all ways past the horizon.
Isn't it enough just to be here on this ivory sand
watching breakers curl against clouds darkening, still far out,
spellbound by the limitless, the reach of coast?
Six o'clock now, the show's closing down.
A few paragliders swoop in
while children put final touches to their sandcastle.
Soon they'll carry water to the moat.
by hiring a boat in the fishing village of Camogli and heading off
for the waters of Zoagli. He has his hand firmly on the tiller
and he’s telling me that one day he’s going to be a champion boxer.
He’s taking me to Zoagli because he wants me to see the fish.
I don’t tell him that when he was born the fish leapt clean out of the sea
nor do I tell him that when his mother was going crazy
the fish of Zoagli flew straight into my head and flapped.
I don’t say, Son if you could open my head and let the fish go free
I might take the day off and pretend that life was sweet.