all programmes minimised
the blue sky of my screen-saver
prompts me to look
out there

morning yoga: when I bend into triangle, a star slides into view

the pleasure of painting a narrow white line across the Buddha's eyelid

the morning after all those conversations, I awake early with my head swirling. did I miss anything? did I do okay?

at Sangharakshita's funeral
in a cavernous barn
with 1200 people who loved him:

birdsong

a bowl of strawberry swedish glace & a sprinkling of failed-cake crumbs

not a candle or a bulb

but a sharp burst of light

bouncing off the gold

halo-ing Mary on my shrine

my too-long nails scrape on the keyboard
the sound of neglect

four dead wasps in the shrine room this morning, and one alive

after a long season of slow dying and being stung

feeling more and more tenderness 

a day too full for small stones
(I missed thousands)

around the rim of the circle of dark chicory in my mug, the colour fades to clear

As we circumambulate the Buddha I see Khema taking Darrah around the garden, collecting leaves for the bunnies. His mum sings with us, has some time alone with the light.

morning shimmers on the red chiffon curtain, a matrix of tiny dots of light

Roshi comes over to be stroked. His tail is wet with dew. His purr says he is happy to be seen.

how many peanut & chocolate chip cookies
will it take
to settle
this turbulent
heart?
(answer: four)

only 10.40am: resistance to writing gives rise to an invisible tug towards the chocolate drawer

The horizon is misty mauve meeting a blush of pink-orange, fading to pale blue. I glance away and when I look back, a lozenge of radiant light has been birthed. Soon it's a pale yellow orb, too bright to see.

A trio of women at the retail park. One throws back her head and laughter fountains out.

without my glasses
winking fairy lights in the fireplace
are tiny fireworks

what's on my carpet

a smear of rainbow from the crystal that hangs at the window
a smudge of frizzy black hair from our old man cat
a box of tissues
dust
me

one elderly man to another, tugging at the top of his trouser leg to illustrate:
"the trouble is the stocking keeps slipping down to below where the pain is"

amongst the skeletons of courgette plants
this late nasturtium
claiming a burst of vibrant orange all day

last week's baby-pink nerines are half shrivelled, half intact, their narrow petals bending back with extravagance

Interruption

As I search for words, Fatty makes the noise which means he wants food. I lead him to his bowl and show him what he's already got. A few mouthfuls and he's satisfied. He walks his arthritic walk to the cat-flap and I watch him through the glass, stalking off towards the veg patch.

Late October. The light slips away whilst my back is turned.

the imagined shapes of hot golden liquid in my mouth: morning tea

in the early grey light of the bathroom, blackbirdsong streams in through the frosted glass.

my yoga teacher's words stay with me all day -

meeting and greeting what feels difficult

a guilty handful of crisps an hour before dinner
leave behind the smell of frying & a lick of salt

a concentrated drop of light on the Buddha's golden chin

the last sun rose
white crumpled disc
draws the eye