a tuft of Silver's hair floats up to join the wispy cloud scraps in the blue

Misty Flower, the most affectionate cat in the world

I say I'm going to smuggle Misty home in my handbag. Tilly tells me she'll be sad, and that when I next come round her mummy will put me on the naughty step for a whole week.

The tissue-wrapped penguin snow globe falls with the soft crunch of a dropped egg. Seeping water darkens the blue in patches.

Hidden

* Crouching in the grass to welcome a bounding-towards-me cat, I'm close enough to notice a tiny shiny yellow dish, a white sun shape, the gorgeous spot of a forget-me-not.

* Brushing the plastic red watering can against the bushy mint to get to the streaming water releases clouds of clean green scent.

* Glancing up, a cresent moon in the mid-blue sky, the outside edge an opaque white curve and the inside delicately shaded.

In the Crematorium car park, two clumps of uprooted pansies are dumped on the tarmac. Gaudy plastic flowers attempt to hold their colour up against the rain. Everything has a film of grey.

tawny owl call: a tremulous, hollow coo

Passing the baton

The pure-white lilac blossoms have rusted, the lupins are building the promise of their green spires.

a bunch of just-pulled radishes as bright as jewels

a wine-glass full of juice spills a cranberry shadow over the heated gravel

we wade through the field of tall grass, and behind the pill-box his piss splashes onto concrete

a smallish leaf is clinging on to the back brake light, smoothed out as if pressed between the leaves of a book

The truck in front says 'machinehealer.com.'
Even broken machines need loving attention.

Birds trace sudden shapes in the wind like stones, hurled.
The big bus brakes, makes the sound of a tiger's purr.

Fatty comes in from outside and gulps water - you can hear him from two rooms away. Another rust-coloured tick waits on his chin to be yanked off.

nothing

I plant chard seedlings in the vegetable patch, their spindly stalks already glossy crimson. The wind is knocking everything about.

the red clock in the kitchen with the smoothly sweeping second hand is losing time

blueberries for breakfast, bursting in my mouth

agitation

tiny insects are crawling along my bones

difficult to know which of my voices is real

Frangrant bunch of feathery dill, extravagantly plumed lavender, flopping strands of thyme speckled with flowers like tiny orchids.

After rhubarb crumble and cream, the bowl is set on the grass. With permission, Fatty licks it back to purest black.

Last year's missed potatoes have pushed the black weed supression fabric into a tent. The breeze transforms it into the hide of a great wounded beast.

tonight the almost-
full moon is hanging
behind a veil of
pale green beach-
polished glass

the lonely allium asked for a grey day
the better to show off her purple petals

burn whilst writing

coconut candle burns steadily, sprinkles sweetness all around

During the meeting, bouquets of sound drift in from the gospel choir.

Little girl overheard in the Living Rainforest

'I've never liked stingrays, and I don't think I ever will.'

new habit

pressing locks of hair against my closed lips, as if I'm trying to keep the words in

a green shield bug touches down on my arm with a -thwock-

after rain

birdsong, rinsed and shining