Waiting for a train, Bramley

The yeasty breath of the bakery reaches Bramley station, where the icy cold of the metal seats soaks through skirts to skin.

out of sorts, I turn up the heating and warm myself back to health

Memory from last night, trailing

Rain and dark press in, the jeep in front trails warm red light on the shiny road. Ahead, the red behind the woodburner's clear glass spurs me on.

thick frost, an hour after sunrise

the fur on the yellow leaves grows heavy and drips (with sudden glints) onto the grass

honeycomb

on waking my body has lost its weight - my bones are the bones of birds

yesterday's fire lies in ashes

woodburner saturday

watery peach and tangerine flames lazily lick the logs

this. small. loneliness.
is missing the point

the wind opens its mouth and blows across the chimey stack as if it is a bottle

Narrow alleyway, dusk

Step sideways to avoid the metal edges of the skip, or further to avoid the edge of smell.

seven painted partridge heads bob in the long grass

it's all talk...

Eczema

The thick skin cracks, draws a straight gash that cuts down into the pink. When I open my hand it threatens to split at the ends. When I open my hand it hurts.

whatever else happens, don't forget to feed the birds

on a big wooden table: a bunch of yellow tulips

Fatty comes in for breakfast

He loudly announces his presence then runs upstairs to jump on my lap. His black ankle fur is sparkling with dew.

What now? What else?

A taste like metal in my mouth. The pressure of shin against knee, bent foot against wall. Spiced orange extinguished candle scent. Fast tyres on wet road, Emiliana Torrini singing a lullaby. A thirst. These strings of letters unrolling before me like a red carpet.

spiderweb. wasp. terrible writhing.

at the edges of his mouth

strings of saliva hold onto his top and bottom lip as he speaks

the sillhouette of a hedge-top wren dips his jaunty tail and chitters in the sun

Sheffield city centre

The pavements already slicked with work-all-week-go-mad-at-the-weekend vomit.

the khaki beetle opens his wings, flashes orange

a minute past midnight

mottled golden wodge of moon

the sun shines on the anniversary of my birth

On failing to catch a mouse

He mistakes me for my cat and zig-zags the kitchen floor before scooting behind the cooker. I imagine laying a cartoon trail of cheese to the open front door.

Falling behind on my poem-a-day calendar

...The velvet peaches of August...

fussy blue-tit

he chucks out twenty seeds or more to get to the type he likes

the perfect Saturday morning for a cat

after eating breakfast and a nap, Silver attacks the bathroom mat again

on opening the front door

a trio of goldfinches rise

during meditation

a passing truck floods the white wall with shifting tangerine

billboard

ONE PERSON A DAY IN READING DIES FROM FAGS