sky change, early morning

deep navy
(lit up from behind)
with a smudge of pink
to ordinary grey

what arrived after breakfast

the memory of a kitten-tongue licking my nose in the night

sharp flakes of sea-salt swim in liquid caramel: saltiness seeps into sweet & colours the taste

a stain of tea-taste in my empty mouth

inside we consider a new life with the man behind the desk. outside sheep browse the fields.

the garden cold & wintered, the memory of reading on blankets in the sun fading

farmer's market

fudge with crushed maltesers in. veggie scotch egg. spinach quiche. happiness in a brown paper bag.

As Keats coughs his consumptive cough in 'Bright Star' I feel my lungs inside me, healthy, pink, and fill with fear.

snow

a light dusting: sifted sugar on the gentle dome of a sponge.
the clouds hold their palms towards me, shielding the hills from view.

today I saw a picture of a bird but not a bird

shrine with gold accents

intricate brocade on our aqua strip of sari, the rims of the deep blue offering cups, bluish candlelight flickering on the robes of the gold-leafed Buddha, a tongue of flame

an old ginger & lemon teabag rests on the soil of the pot-plant, waiting patiently to dissolve back into the earth

old snow, pocks in the grass

at the naming ceremony, we hold out two flowers to one year old Ramona. she takes one in each hand, beaming. she doesn't understand the words but she understands love.

the snow follows us from west to east. we stop in a service station and drink coffee. the chairs scrape on the floor and fill the cavernous space.

a cut on my hand (from paper?) itches persistently

Third day without my laptop. I float between webmail & facebook. I can't get at what will make me feel real.

I try not to try too hard.

write a small stone (& hurrays & thankyous)

in honour of this year's River of Stones, rather than reading a small stone today I'd like you to write one and post it here. here's our Hurrays & Thankyous post with links to all our marvellous guest bloggers.

while I'm at it, a huge thank you to all the readers of a small stone over the years. you rock. (hee hee)

_/\_ (deep bow)

the hills draw their mists around them all day, trying to warm their small animals, mosses & rocks

Outside: drizzle. Inside: the computer screen. Leonard Cohen's gravelly voice calls me from downstairs.

after a walk on the hills

the usual talk of relationships, meaning, death. sipping our lemonade. looking out towards Wales.

in someone else's notebook: a biro scrawl, 'A Year of Service'. what does it mean?

the thin piping sound of a bird from outside
makes me hungry for the hills

after service, stone passing

when I'm not watching, the fat church candle gutters & dies. we carry on talking.

I didn't write anything down: Tuesday is lost.

nothing more delicious than finding a sleepy cat & making him purr.... =^..^=

blind girl in Birmingham art gallery

she skims her fingers over the intricate stone sculpture, starting at the middle, working her way out. the woman reads information from the wall - dates, names. the man with them stands to one side, looking bored. the girl can't see him.

He's in the supermarket early, like me. He carries his own unwashed smell around with him like a planet with its own atmosphere. He hesitates in front of the fruit juice. This one, or this?

a dry ache in my head, my blood sludgy, the sun comes up and goes down nonetheless.

The soil is dry. I empty the dregs of tea into the bathroom sink and fill the mug with water. I carry it into the office. I pour water into the pot, where it sinks down towards the roots. The plant drinks. What ordinary miracles.