Green is the wet night,
And fingers at my casement
linger crookedly.

Bright light, convulsive
from the centre, blinds me quite.
Cut clean, white chisel.

Pale winter heaven,
Diana, cold white and small:
cup the shrivelled gourd.

Night, flea-bitten thief,
cast your black self to the moon
and return my sleep.

How is your defence,
silly quills? Oncoming car.
Quick into the thicket!

At the water's edge,
summon the rising wind to
keep the tears at bay.

Land from sea to sea,
unknowing, sleeping, trying;
waken, weep and bleed.

Rage, roar, pound, O surf,
upon my bleeding beaches;
wash my body home.

Hurt world, by anguish
quickened, from the dark centre
rise, small seeds of joy.

Claire Pratt
Haiku (1965 pp. 5-6)