on the tube

I gaze at her beautiful face

pink roses, just bloomed

so soon, the edges of the petals rust

a sticker on the jeep in front: one life. live it.

flowers in jugs either side of the shrine, each one picked by someone's fingers and arranged with loving care

petunias coming up all over

last earl-grey gulp

unstirred sugar gives me a sweet surprise

spider circles my laptop screen, intricate blacks and whites on his back and legs

A white butterfly floats past the pink roses, which have been taunting us with their tight buds all week. This morning their crumpled petals are letting in light and air. They bob their heads in the breeze and invite me outside to taste their perfume.

the days roll past, too fast, too fast

we talk about life and death and spirit but maybe the most important thing is making carrot cake and offering it

We are discussing blueberries. Lucas (4) likes 'any food that is squishy'.

a throaty bubble, wood-pigeon punctuates the blackbird's twirl

forced into its cosy hole in the grass by yesterday's lawnmower, removed, inspected, sniffed, and slotted back in: one small stone

walking meditation

sheep sweep the hill, finding the most luscious grass around the edges. when we turn our heads again they've gone.

all day Silver sleeps on the conservatory chair, like being in the garden only safe

my favourite petunia

black velvet in the neck of the flute, skirts crinkling out to edges of rude pink

group process

sometimes you have to swim through dark brackish water without end to find the flickers of light

Anna has written initials on the top layer of cream of the banoffee pie in wild strawberries - tiny, delicate, deep-blush-red. She carefully placed every one with her fingertips.

shimmy: papery pink petunia petals

Here: bright buttercups decorating the grass. Far over there: pale sheep decorating the hill.

"I love showing off my beautiful body. I, also, have great boobs and I love boobs." The bio of my new follower on Twitter proves that small stones are everywhere when we open our eyes.

seeping through the skin of this room:
blackbird-song, tyre-swoosh, Isabela's cries

lush peonies rest their over-exuberance on the low brick wall

A crow-commotion. We run outside in our socks, expecting a trapped wing or a bloody fight. Esther, cat-from-next-door, hunches in the tree too close to a nest. She won't budge.

Flight of Swallows Over the Field of Gold

today's small stone is wordless

en route to Machynlleth

a small triangle of oozing ewes cheese, a chewy sourdough loaf blessed with seeds, a drink-of-water view of the rolling green valley. a mother sheep keeps her eye on us, her two babies waggling their tails behind her.

the pinky leaves blow back in the breeze, flattening and springing back a thousand times

Cat sitting for Thomas

We call for Thomas. Another cat comes out of the black night - we hear him before we see him, black on black, he shouts 'yow! yow!'. He twines in between our ankles and laps up our strokes.

clematis

deep velvet maroon petals press against the moss-green fence. the spiky golden centre like a twenty-legged insect, resting.

Early, sitting alone in the conservatory. Outside, the sun is starting to lick the edges of our lawn. Wood-pigeons puncture the silence, and a dog barks in the distance. The Malvern hills keep an eye on me, as they always do. You can lean on their broad green shoulders whenever you want.