Wednesday, December 31

Non-meeting with a deer, 31.12.08

Ten minutes before midnight I go out into the pitch black garden and crouch with my back against the hedge. The air is cold. After a while, I hear cropping and munching sounds from just over there.

Tuesday, December 30

reading about rooks and crows, I see them everywhere

Monday, December 29

Sunday, December 28

Leek soup

From shop to palm to earth to plant in three quarters of a year. From earth to pot to soup to belly in three quarters of an hour.

Friday, December 26

coming around again

carrying compost across the grass in my spanking-new pink wheelbarrow, I split the last of last year's bulbs and push the white cloves into the crumbly earth

Thursday, December 25

the post-roast-partridge tin slides sweetly across the film of splashed washing-up water

Wednesday, December 24

Roadolf

I find Erin's reindeer in my notebook, labelled 'Roadolf the red nos rander'. Last week, I asked her to draw me a surprise.

Tuesday, December 23

christmas window

a triangle of wine left in the glass
darker than the night window
where the reflection of fairy lights
are light rain on a clear pond

Monday, December 22

Saturday, December 20

the new inn, stratfield saye

there is nothing vegetarian on the menu. he asks 'do you eat fish?' hopefully. am I his first?

Friday, December 19

inside where it's warm

the wind breathes down the chimney, the dark presses its cheeks up against the windows

Thursday, December 18

After driving over a sleeping policeman

The Hello Kitty air freshener swings back and forth: I haven't noticed it doing that before. It's been right in front of my eyes for 19 months.

Wednesday, December 17

Overheard conversation in the village shop

Do you have any chocolate advent calendars left?
Sorry, no.
Oh. The cat was sick on my daughter's one.

Tuesday, December 16

the snowy ash suffuses the air around the compost bin

Monday, December 15

a run-over cellophaned bunch of flowers on the roundabout

Sunday, December 14

This morning next to the bird food box - a decapitated finch.
I lift both pieces by the feathers and fling it into the grass.

Friday, December 12

in love with the world again, small stones are everywhere
and right here, this smear of bright blood from a paper cut

Thursday, December 11

the teased-out clouds pull back, reveal
the beautiful face of the moon

Wednesday, December 10

roll these words around in your mouth

a lit cigarette skids on the tarmac
the tangerine tip brighter than break-lights

Tuesday, December 9

This morning a fly expired on the tip of my golden buddha's head-dress.
I scraped him into the bin and said goodbye.

Monday, December 8

a thick frost: not covering it up, but showing us the world more clearly

Sunday, December 7

'Yes please,' 'Thank you,' 'Would you like some mummy?' says the little blonde boy on the train.

Saturday, December 6

the jar of Coleman's horseradish sauce doesn't have any heat

Friday, December 5

his guinea fowl with pea fritter on pea puree has one variety of pea concoction too many

Thursday, December 4

September's sunflowers hang in torn brown tatters, offering their heads as food for tits

Wednesday, December 3

I've think I've fallen out of love with stones - and then remember
all I have to do is stop and look