NE63 Haiku

Early morning sun Gentle breeze across the pitch Joining celebrations The Long Wait is Over: Sun, Sunday League, and a 5-0 Win Since the 21st of December, the weekends have felt a little quieter, a little more shadowed. But this morning, the long wait finally ended. Max’s Sunday team took to the pitch for their first game in two months, and the atmosphere couldn't have been more different from the artificial lights of the indoor camp. The world felt like it was finally waking up: Early morning sun Gentle breeze across the pitch Joining celebrations There’s something about a crisp February morning when the sun actually decides to show up. It wasn't just about the weather, though; it was the energy. Watching the boys work so hard for one another after such a long break was incredible. They weren't just playing as individuals; they were a unit, a team in every sense of the word. Max played his heart out. As a dad, you feel every moment with them. He’s been chasing a goal for a...

Air cool against skin Artificial light and grass My pride watching son shine There are moments as a parent that just stick with you, capturing a feeling so pure it almost takes your breath away. This weekend, I had one of those moments watching Max at his football training camp. The setting was a world away from a sunny outdoor pitch. We were inside a large, cavernous facility. The air was cool, almost cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the energy on the field. Above, bright artificial lights hummed, casting an even glow over the green artificial grass beneath. It’s a familiar environment for many young athletes, a dedicated space for skill and passion. And in that moment, this haiku came to mind: Air cool against skin  Artificial light and grass My pride watching son shine It perfectly encapsulated the scene. The sensory details were sharp: the cool air, the synthetic turf, the bright, almost sterile light. Yet, despite the artificiality of the environment, the experience i...

Forty three days rain   Colour drains from the skyline   Breath steadies again By 12 February 2026, it had rained for forty-three days here in the UK. Not always heavy, not always storming — just persistent. Grey skies stretch on long enough that you stop expecting anything different. Today, the weather felt like it had settled somewhere inside me. An anxiety attack came on quietly, without a clear reason. I’ve learned not to search too hard for one. Sometimes they arrive because I’m tired. Sometimes, because I’m fighting off illness. Sometimes, because my nervous system simply decides it’s time. The sharp pain in my chest is the part that always gets my attention. It’s sudden and convincing. Even knowing what it is, it still feels urgent. I use the breathing I’ve practised — 4-7-8 — and ground myself through the five senses. Slowly, steadily, it passes. The rain outside has been constant this winter. The colour seems drained from pavements and skies alike. But just ...

Night moves by slowly   Artificial lights hum softly   Solvents tickle nostrils Night shift has its own atmosphere. Time stretches differently under artificial light. The outside world sleeps, but inside the lab everything continues — machines humming, screens glowing, samples waiting. I felt flat tonight. Not dramatically low, just dulled around the edges. The tail end of a cold still clinging on, sleep not quite enough, energy never fully returning. The kind of tiredness that isn’t urgent but lingers quietly. The fluorescent lights hum without change. The smell of solvents hangs in the air, sharp enough to remind you that you’re awake, even if you don’t quite feel it. There’s something strange about working through the night while your body insists it should be somewhere else. This haiku came from that steady, muted space. Not a bad night. Not a good one. Just slow, measured hours under artificial light.

Views foggy, sky grey   Air chilled, heavy on the chest   Someone shares my words The day felt muted from the start. Fog hung low, the sky a flat grey that dulled everything it touched. One of those days where the air feels heavy, pressing in a little, mirroring the mood rather than lifting it. Nothing dramatic — just that slow, familiar winter greyness that seeps into the bones. Then, unexpectedly, a small interruption. A notification appeared to say that a stranger had shared one of my haiku on Instagram. No message, no explanation — just the simple act of passing it on to their own followers. It caught me off guard in the best way. In a day that felt closed in and colourless, it was a quiet reminder that these words don’t just sit here on the page. They travel. They land somewhere else. I didn’t feel elated or suddenly energised — just gently lifted. Enough to notice the moment, enough to write this haiku. Sometimes that’s all it takes: a small human connection cu...

Sunlight evades me Days pass in half-sleeped shadow Spring waits at the door The world follows a steady rhythm of sun and stars, but for a shift worker, those lines often blur. Working 12-hour stretches in the lab means my relationship with daylight is complicated. In the winter months, I often head into a shift in the dark and emerge long after the sun has tucked itself away. It’s a strange, liminal existence—living in the gaps while the rest of the world is awake. I wrote this haiku to capture that heavy, quiet fatigue of the "in-between" There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes with the night shift, a "half-sleeped shadow" where you’re physically present but your internal clock is searching for a sun it can't find. But as the weeks progress, I’m looking toward the threshold. "Spring waits at the door" is my reminder that the cycle is turning. I’m ready for the mornings where the sun beats me to the car, and the evenings where the light ling...

Wet stone and muddy Hours of relentless downpour  Tiredness taken it's toll The rain hasn’t really stopped for two days. Not showers, just a constant presence — wet stone, muddy paths, cold air that settles in and stays. I’m still fighting off a cold, and the last two shifts have been long ones. Twelve hours on, twice in a row. Sleep has come in short stretches — three hours one night, five and a half the next — just enough to function, not enough to feel restored. By the end of today, it all felt cumulative. The damp, the cold, the tiredness, the way the body keeps count even when you try not to. This haiku came at the close of the day, written from that place where you’re still upright, still moving, but feeling the weight of everything that’s passed through.