from the motorway

a crown of snow turns the Malvern hills into Japanese mountains

blackbird waits in the frosted bush
the bright stab of his beak matches the berries

grass brushed with white. clouds sinking. steam from a black iron chimney boils and rises.

"Do you know where Ask is?"

"I haven't seen one anywhere. I'd like to go to that restaurant. We've never seen one around here. I know they have one in Birmingham."

under the desk

toes sheathed in cold

pigeons float on ceaceless blue, their wings a stroke of calligrapher's ink

wanting a break from this word-crammed online world

after autumn

a scatter of silver leaves cling on to the very tops of the trees

baked eggs

golden yolks hide herby mushrooms and squishy garlic cloves

he sings for his mother, who's gone.

managing to finally use the beautiful Japanese squares of patterned paper I'd keep forever if I wasn't careful

clipped into gorgeous titbits and pasted to cards to send to the people I want to be happy

cold toe-tips. furry blanket.

home. recent rain on the washing line a string of fairy lights. the hills under mist.

like a grand old house packed away for the winter
a veil (which mutes all colour) covers the trees, the sky

from the registry office, the crest of the hills: walkers shrunk to raisins

pale blue sky, drained of warmth. weak sun.

seascape

rolling herefordshire hills wiped with mist

jewels

snipped coriander sprinkled on fresh-baked nan

the happier the cat, the longer the foot-of-bed stretch

time trickles through my fingers like sand

it's ok as long as I remember to feel its texture and warmth

I rub at my glasses. I can't get these specks to clear.

cold winter light paints the fence. next door's swing chains sway in the breeze, no children required.

geraniums
from two doors down
peeking round
puncture the dull-grey-green

soft rain sound slips in through a slit in my dreams

the edges of things

tree-tops dissolve into the Malvern mist

Fatty curls up on my papers
forcing me to slow down

four piglets in an outside cage, the wind whistling around

light seeps in at blind edges:
I'm safe in here with my words

sheep crowd at the fence, meeting a single dark brown calf at the water trough

I find them in the conservatory, talking of dads and death