pre-leaving-the-soppy-cats-for-two-weeks-guilt

a silver engagement helium balloon

post-hash-browns-garlic-mushrooms-white-toast-and-butter-fried-egg-bliss

driving home, I remember to live this day and not the others

sweet reek of incense trickles down the stairs

after looking at seventy tea-pots, we find THE perfect one

£1.20 for a bunch of beetroot

He leads us past sunflowers, broad beans, leeks, and pulls five perfect globes from the good dark earth.

downstairs with the door open wide

the fridge sings to the crows, a high-pitched whine

waking up to

the gentle whispering of rain,

the quiet wheeze of a cat's snore

too long looking into this little screen, I want to look into a face

a crawking mass of crows transform the blue

wanting to describe the exact shade of these plastic-like glorious orchids, I find: rose madder

waking at 4.45am

wood-pigeons keep me company until everyone agrees the day begins

acrid wafts of cow-parsley accompany this late afternoon sunny-country-lane walker

an enthusiasm of juvenile great-tits mob the peanut feeder

melancholy seeps in

outside, the world is battered about a bit.

inside, muffled sounds of wind like a duvet.

great mounds of cloud, illuminated.

a pared sliver of moon.

almost too busy to notice the sound of the rain

over breakfast

instead of staring at a screen, I let the walnut tree work its magic on me

view

no need to fly, my eye swoops over hills and sparkling water,

all of it laid out before us as if we were gods

hare krishna devotees on the isle of wight ferry

after eating rice from huge containers, served by the women, they clap and chant and praise. i consider going over to join them but stay instead with the rest of the passengers, in ones and twos and threes and fours, minding our own business.

in the Woodsman

they discuss their ailing friends over sherry trifle

shining my peach before taking a bite releases rich genie-aroma

not no small stones, but no no-hurry

a caramel doughnut disappoints: sickly, cloying, wrong. a cup of clear mint tea is what I need.

marsh tit on the edge of life

feathers scattered across the floor, warm breast beating in my hand

old white battle cat

hunches on the wall with a mean expression on his face, as if he owns the place, which he does

after their family party, they come round offering cake and a simple glass vase of dark purple sweet peas laced with lavender.

after walking the Roman wall in Silchester

finding Christ (wood covered in beaten metals: copper, gold) in the holy hush of St. Mary's Church

after time apart

in the garden centre eating home-made quiche

we look and suddenly know each other again

heard from an upstairs window

the sound of Fatty crunching the mouse's skull....