Sunday, November 19

Cross

On the verge where the trees bend low is a simple wooden cross and a dead bouquet. Has her foot been caught on this spot? Does she watch quiet deer nosing their way out of the forest at dawn? Does she listen for the whoosh of wheels to break up the long nights? Does she wait for new flowers?

32 years

How has it taken me 32 years to notice a pigeon plunge his head into a murky puddle and gulp gulp gulp?

Thursday, November 9

Familiar objects

Fairy lights strung up the stairs, too sparkly to save until Christmas. A mug printed with violet and scarlet flower-shapes. My ribbon-wrapped journal. A fat ivory candle as thick as my arm.

Sunday, November 5

Aeroplane: as I watch

It sketches a downy line of white which softens and is absorbed back into the blue.