At Last the Plane

A Haibun

The trunk slams. A hug, a kiss and she’s gone. I’m left standing on the corner with my bags. Checked in, belt off, shoes in the box. Then some old guy says “Put out your arms.” He pats me down. “Thanks,” I say. I’m through. Sitting in the window as the sun goes down.

The Em’rald Isle

Winks Golden before sunrise

Brownie magic.

Four hour layover means Irish breakfast in Dublin: Black and white pudding, ham, boxty, eggs, ‘shrooms and hot tomatoes. No tea for me just a strong black coffee. First on last off the plane.

Train from Schipol

Zaandam bus to Womerveer

Pumpkin greets me.