Wednesday, May 31

a small stone

I pull a smooth black stone out of my pocket - a beach weekend is attached to it like a veil.

Tuesday, May 30

When I return

three people have sent emails telling me they have eaten my words and found them tasty. Thank you.

Monday, May 29

I lay awake too early

and listened to the rain on the tent, not wanting to go back to sleep.

Sunday, May 28

Flying fish

Their squat black sillhouettes as they burst up out of the water and ploshed back in after a rainbow-shaped leap said 'here I am'.

Saturday, May 27

Sunset, Wrabness

The sky starts a slow pink and burns brighter and brighter red-orange as the sun slips out of sight.

Thursday, May 25

Lazy morning

The cats prowl, looking for something that rustles

Tuesday, May 23


Their big purple pom-pom heads balance on their long straight stems, bobbing in the breeze like buoys.

Sunday, May 21


He was white, swan-sized, with a long curling beak and wet black button eyes. He was mine. My job was to fill his stomach with internal organs. There was a zip across his belly - opened up his insides were gory and half-full. I put the different shapes in one by one - a length of intestine, a couple of kidney-shaped sacs. The last bit wouldn't fit. I thought I might have to cut him, make the hole bigger. He lay patiently on his back in my arms, squirming a little from the discomfort, his life in my hands.

Saturday, May 20

very sleepy

but even the sun bouncing off the side mirror of the car in front is saying good morning

Friday, May 19


overhead the clouds are rushing and bumping like London commuters

Thursday, May 18


it's sweet enough, but the texture reminds me of death

Wednesday, May 17

she tells me

she tells me the worst: she doesn't know who she is any more

Tuesday, May 16

tired eyes

the rain is a man with white hair and tired eyes thrumming his fingers on a varnished wooden desk

Monday, May 15


A small boy pirouettes in his garden. The hood on his red top is up, the drawstring pulled tight.

Sunday, May 14


This morning as every morning my heart is crushed by their small soft bodies.

Saturday, May 13

Jesus will save me

I offer him my seat on a busy tube - his hair is a little messed up and I wonder if there might be something wrong, but he accepts gratefully and sits as the train moves off. When the train slows again he takes out a large golden cross and brandishes it in a circle around his body, and as he passes me to get off he presses a card into my hand and smiles. It's like a playing card, but with Jesus on the front.

Friday, May 12

I didn't know

I didn't know that this dull-green spiky bush would let out such a profusion of pale yellow butterfly flowers.

Thursday, May 11


After lining up numbers into rows all morning I take a book of poetry into the garden.

Wednesday, May 10


Suddenly the garden is full of floating dandelion seeds, each lighter than a snowflake.

Tuesday, May 9

Japanese lilies

The long buds like snakes heads threaten to brown and wilt before they open. One of them manages to show off its pink, and floods the room with its gorgeous stink.

Monday, May 8


He sits on the roof and makes a perfect curve with the line from his tail-feathers to the crown of his head, framing a slice of sky like a cookie-cutter.

Sunday, May 7

Becoming empty and allowing something in

I sit and wait. A small stone rises from somewhere murky and deep, as if the heart of it has become suddenly buoyant and is lifting it up towards the light.

Saturday, May 6

6.45 am

Two crows push their heads into the grass like spears and gobble their breakfast. Behind them the mist is so thick the fields could be on fire.

Friday, May 5


their shiny petals a shallow dish designed to bounce pure yellow back at the bees

Thursday, May 4

Wednesday, May 3

Saying yes

She tells him if he keeps saying yes to everyone then he won't have any time for himself. 'I suppose so', he says.

Tuesday, May 2


The sun is promising warmth. When it gets people out into their gardens it turns its back on them.

Monday, May 1

Repeat as necessary

Look up: a pale flattened-grass path made by many feet, sweeping gracefully ahead
Look down: an irridescent-blue beetle making his way from one lush green place to another