(lost)

iffy tummy

plain brown rice is everything I want

small consolations

this candle flame, these legs that keep me up, this fine bone china cup of clear mint tea

Jam

A song about Norwegian dancing goats written more than a hundred years ago bounces around the interior of the car. The dark rain doesn't penetrate.

loss

it's too late

berries

white berries: most of them lonesome, pure as fresh snow, strange miniature moons
red berries: a few waxy bright torpedoes kicking out against the dull green leaves behind
black berries: scattered clumps of plump full stops

wonky gingerbread men

treacle and cinnamon waft through the house, mingling with woodsmoke and ink

Whilst on the phone

Whilst on the phone, a bang from the road is followed by a pheasant crying - waark! waark! waark! After the call I walk out onto the road but I can't see him anywhere.

as if

the light skips across the flowing stream as if it is alive, which it is

today my whole body wants to be closer to the ground

real life is better than cartoons

like a roadrunner and a coyote
one squirrel pegs it after the other
up and down
round and round
up and down the tree

Pheasant

He misses his footing on the gravel. His knee bends a fraction before he gets his balance back, continues his strutting circuit around the garden.

Waiter

This part of his training he's remembered well - a ringing, rising, delighted-to-see-you 'hello!' as diners pile into the bright warm restaurant from the driving rain outside.

polenta cake

squidgy dense lemony granular mouthfuls

(lost)

moulder

the dregs of seed have mouldered, turned into powder - the birds crowd around the peanut feeder

new filofax

I tear out and throw away old shopping lists, old master plans, old friends

Found pound

The elegant elderly gentleman in a pin stripe suit spots a pound coin on the carpet. He picks it up and hands it in to the cashier, his scalp shining through his white hair, his palsy a small continuous lolling and recovering.

first frost

the fields white out

making fire on a november afternoon

the smell of woodsmoke follows us to the car

farm shop

even where tables are set up for coffee and lemon drizzle cake, the sour clammy smell of meat saturates the air

through binoculars

robin, chest glowing in the darkening afternoon, dips his body forward and takes black sunflowers seeds into his mouth

brims up

he speaks from his dark and lonely centre: love brims up in me

a new spot for Silver

under the radiator in the spare room, a bank of heat soaking through her fur

the night after bonfire night

families of white sparks are born and scatter, a handful of gravel flung onto water

Ego

Two large crumpled leaves have landed on this empty parked car's windscreen. They'll need to be lifted off before the driver can pull away. I'll do it. As soon as the thought surfaces I snatch it away, examine it for signs of posturing, ego, how-I-would-like-to-be-seen.

Old poet

He loses his place, ugly-coughs, breaks into snatches of song. He wants to read more poems. He is so transparent, you can almost see the back of the hall behind him. He is so solid, when he looked and took my hand he squeezed out tears.

baubles

fat sparrow cut-outs strung on bare branches - every so often they rearrange themselves

squirrel

branches flex
leaves shiver
a grey blur darts
(fishlike)
out of sight

11 month old Florence says look!

Every ten minutes there is something new to fill her up with awe.