Many of the people who have sat on the bench and worn smooth its hand-crafted surface have been bone-weary and hungry. How often have walkers lifted their heads from loosening the laces in their boots or removing their shoes to inhale salt on the breeze and drink in the many shades of sky and sea blue? Scudding clouds overhead never seem to stop or off-load and the outlook from this bench seems permanently bright. Only the trees know the wicked winds of winter that bend them into contorted hobgoblins, unlike the sturdy bench, a distant cousin carved by a human into curves of oak and sandpapered by the weather’s artistic hands, exposing its knots and character. The bench has heard stories of love and loss. Watched seasons pass. Felt a bird’s claws on its back and grass tickle its legs. And it has had the constant company of the waves ebbing and flowing, whispering a lullaby at the end of the day.
secrets in its knots and grain
a weatherworn bench
© Kim M. Russell, 2016
This week Chèvrefeuille has challenged us to create a haibun inspired by a photo, with a maximum of 250 words including the haiku (or tanka).