Tuesday, September 30

a single drop of water

invites a pin-prick of light to the dark centre of the sunflower

Monday, September 29

a concertina of pale yellow paper dies on the motorway

Sunday, September 28

the concrete walkway spirals up and over the motorway connecting green (at walking pace) with green

Thursday, September 25

last night I wrote a small stone in my dream -
this morning I can't find it anywhere

Wednesday, September 24



Tuesday, September 23


string of honey from a squeezy tube / ring of fading sunflower petals / burnished buddha sitting quietly

Monday, September 22

Sunday, September 21


double cream dropped into the heart of a bowl of blood-red borscht

Saturday, September 20

Friday, September 19

the cloud curtains part and a triangle of the short-cut lawn lights up

Thursday, September 18

still no email.
click refresh.
still no email.
click refresh.

Wednesday, September 17

pj harvey on ipod

...o god i miss you...
...o god i miss you...
...o god i miss you...
...o god i miss you...
...o god i miss you

Tuesday, September 16

Sunday, September 14

The kitten jumps straight up and walks across Steve's knees to form a purring ball in the centre of my lap. When it is time to get on the boat, I carry him over to a Croatian girl who is playing with the other two. 'Number three', I say. 'Number three!' she says, suprised to understand.

Saturday, September 13

Friday, September 12

She asks us if we'd take a photo of her. She doesn't have anyone with her to take it. She sits on the city wall and pretends to read, 'a natural look'. She smells of loneliness.

Thursday, September 11

Vegetarian Platter

The sign's boast of 'Vegetarian Dishes' is a little inaccurate. The proprietor describes the only choice with hand gestures and a single word: vegetables. I imagine limp lettuce, cold green beans, but what arrives is a breadcrumbed steak of cheese, discs of soft garlicky aubergine, herby slices of courgette, a mound of potato and spinach salad, and a bunch of the smallest and sweetest cherry tomatoes I've ever tasted.

Wednesday, September 10

View from the Buza bar, Dubrovnik

How can I even begin to translate this shifting shimmering seascape into words?

Tuesday, September 9

ten thousand feet up

she can't believe the cold green beans are dressed with neither salt nor oil

Monday, September 8

In our Croatian kitchen

Everything the same, but different.
Everything different, but the same.

Sunday, September 7


neat rectangles of pale mild cheddar slot into the garlic bread and wait for heat

Saturday, September 6

a random young black labrador appears from nowhere

wag-wag!jump up!run low!jump up!bite arms!bite hands!wag-wag!jump up!run low!jump up!

Friday, September 5

Thursday, September 4

Wednesday, September 3

hiding under the folds of an umbrella in the porch: one dark toad, the size of a ten pence piece

Tuesday, September 2

Crows pass overhead, crying out. The hazel trees cast their shadows onto the graveyard.

Monday, September 1

a trickled drop of liquid on the wrong side of the window looks like blood