Sunday, August 27

the sky half-lit

the sky half-lit, the day gravid with thousands of tiny births and tiny deaths

Saturday, August 26

Sunday, August 20


We hear him answering the nurse's questions behind the hospital curtain. He lives in a hostel, he doesn't have a partner. He has a brother but he doesn't want him to see him 'like this'. He doesn't know his number anyway. His body is trying to get rid of something he's put inside it. He's been here before.

Friday, August 18

Road closed

I bomb down tiny country lanes as the sun gathers strength, hoping they'll bring me back out to the main road. A white van follows, choosing to see me as someone who knows.

Saturday, August 12

Listening to the wind sighing

The whole bush shudders, as if trying to get rid of a sour memory. The clouds hurry on, not wanting to get involved.