Wordsworth

The week’s challenge was to submit a haiku set at an open-home viewing, a camping ground in the winter, a hospital, or a tourist trap. Ken Hall of Christchurch writes: Concrete-block icebox/is our bedroom for the night/ the fittest survive. David Wort, Bay of Plenty: By deserted waves/New grass on silent tent-sites/Like last summer’s graves. Andrea Levarre-Waters, Auckland: Cold mud clings and cakes/Footsteps track past the showers/White steam, wet towels.

Janice Smart, Auckland: Bleak, grey toilet block/An old cistern drips, slowly/ Waiting for springtime. Rex McGregor, Auckland: White-water rafting/Is a thrilling adventure./But not in our tent. Carol Crutchley, Hamilton: Come, my pretties, come/ The bungy jump awaits you/Empty your pockets.

Deni Wilson: White blossoms flutter/ In winter’s bare branches ... oh./It’s toilet paper. Nozz Fletcher, Waikawa: An exquisite beach/In splendid isolation./ Tourist bus pulls up.

Hans Zindel, Palmerston North:

Four hundred flowers/Are on the pink wallpaper/In the waiting room. Marion McLauchlan, Wellington: Surgical nighty/Provides no security/For what comes behind. Lyn Toka, Cambridge: “Is this your wee one...”/(muddy gumboots, streaming nose)/”...jumping on my couch?”

But Palmerston North’s Bernard Harris takes the prize: “Ophthalmology/ Ward?” She asked impatiently/Of the potted plant.

For the next contest, send us a poem of two to six lines in any form describing the exploits of an ancestor. Dramatic licence permitted; rhyming optional. Entries, for the prize below, close at noon on Thursday, August 23.