sitting outside the house with a cat and a cup of tea, watching a robin

whispered then said out loud, one word at a time: this. is. the. life

after a day of emails

the clattering of keys follows me down the garden

the bug man comes and sprays white powder - the wasps get slower and slower, then disappear

midnight snack

he eats my very last chocolate: it tastes of guilt

mother blackbird inserts grubs into the gob of her speckled too-big-to-be-fed son

growing monsters

a mere few days of neglect and the neat courgettes have swollen to pappy monster marrows

seen on a driving instructor's car and begging to be said out loud

BILL HULL L

early morning news

the world is awake before me, busy with consternations

a drooping spear of buddleia blossom attracts no butterflies

opening the laptop

my inbox catches words, I conjure my replies and throw them into the air

morning fur ball

less of a ball, more of a sausage

Sunday morning, sun after rain

feathery dill seedlings scent my weeding with aniseed

the drive to the party through open fields is much better than the party

celebration chocolate and almond torte

the gaps between the chocolatey crumbs suck in double cream from the bottom up

the hedge between here and the road

a coin-sized gap between blackberry leaves flashes white, grey, white, bright red - each colour the apex of a dragged wet whoosh

over-affectionate cat claws leave clusters of red blodges on white knees

So much to choose from

Just this red pepper pot, a little dusty, resting on a sprinkling of crushed peppercorns.

Things you can read in this part of the world

HENRY STREET LEADING TO DOROTHY STREET / HUNDREDS MOURN AT JUNIOR'S FUNERAL / BUY ONE GET ONE FREE / FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE

short back and sides

reveals mottled patches of orangey moss, parched grass, decapitated weeds amongst the green

I want

that pair of snow-white long-haired boots on the way to the Gay Pride march

cold toes love bed socks in the daytime

a blurred bird-shape drifts across the road, the shadow of a sea-creature on the sea bed

tired of roses, I look instead at the tattered hedge

scrunching the dill in my small glass vase releases an aniseed bloom

yesterday's rice salad

the elegant grains stained pink by cubes of beetroot; a few deep fuschia, a few pale pastel, most a segment of the spectrum from dark to light

abundant harvest

the fat heads of dug-up garlic reek

The 18.10 from Leeds to Reading

When we arrive into Birmingham New Street, the train driver announces over the tannoy, there is a possibility that the train will split into two. There's no need to panic - sit back and enjoy your journey. I'll make another announcement in good time. We turn our pages in unison. The train is lovely and quiet, like a forest.

The 15.10 from Reading to Leeds

My neighbour vacates his seat. The train is heaving. I scan the crowds, hoping for someone quiet, someone who will keep to their side of the armrest. The young woman I get is large and spills on to my seat. She brings with her a good clean smell, like apples. Later a man dances down the jolting carriage as if he's at a rave. We share a look. I love her a little.

paltry harvest

half a punnet of barely-black currants

Footwear

Resting on the crypt, two white slip-on shoes - grubby, well-worn. Later at the side of the motorway, seven scattered boots.

As the tension slowly rises I feel suddenly faint with hunger. Somebody, feed me.