Sunday, July 31

boys in the park

they play football & run around & one after the other they come screaming to their mothers. 'he did this.' 'he did that.' 'he said he didn't want to play.' how well we learn to cover up our own small terrible wounds.

Saturday, July 30

found small stone

How are you,
Please reply me
i have important
discussion to
discuss with


(the line breaks were already in place when this landed in my inbox. perfect!) 

Friday, July 29

black-dot fly draws a curve through the super-fine rain
and as a backdrop, the hills (hiding their face)

Thursday, July 28

my favourite musician of the night was the little-bit-crazy one who'd have been even better if he went a little further into his craziness

Wednesday, July 27

big windows. big hill. rabbits make occasional joyous disturbances in the green.

Tuesday, July 26

today's garden: shadowed by machine sounds
the air thick with tarmac-stink

Monday, July 25

pink, yellow, green, blue

lurid re-painted pub
finch showing a flash of belly mid-swoop
the sky
the sky
the sky

Sunday, July 24

a single dandelion seed floats fluffily past, almost missed

Saturday, July 23

Up on the hill

Breeze riffles the grasses variously, pale yellow seedheads rising above a blush of burgundy underneath. A yellow toy plane swoops, circles and swirls. Walkers cross from left to right, from right to left. The grass cushions me.

Friday, July 22

found small stones from the children's guestbook at Barbara Hepworth's sculpture garden

Dear Barbara are you a live! Sorry if your not. I think your talented. love Noor


Dear Barbara, I wold lik to no how maney sculptures wor made. and I wod like to no wat ther nams are. and I like them too. from Joseph


Dear Barbara, my name is Lucy Sutton and I am ten years old. I love art and I express my emotions through drawings. I love pink and blue. I also like adventures fun times. Your sculptures are brilliant by the way. from Lucy


Dear Barbara, I lik the plunts and sculptures

empty glass

coca cola reduced
to a trickle of syrup

Thursday, July 21

after our long absence, the cat wants to be near our heads at night, as if he could stop us from going again

Wednesday, July 20

in the middle of evening service

my words dry up, another voice fills the void.
sometimes we don't know how much help there is
until we are really in need of it.

Tuesday, July 19

a tangle of slug-trails grabs the light & becomes beautiful

Sunday, July 17

her mother looks tired. she is trying to negotiate the brand new world: terrifying, safe. her body isn't under her control. milk comes. warmth comes. milk goes. warmth goes. her liquid eyes are learning to focus. terrifying, safe.

Saturday, July 16

resting my hand, my palm brushes my throat. something pulses, as if a small creature was sleeping under my skin.

Friday, July 15

tang ..... tang ..... tang
Jnanamati walks loops around the farm
tang ..... tang ..... tang
pulling us from our sleep
tang ..... tang ..... tang
with gentle hands

Thursday, July 14

things I love

this old table stained with rings of tea. the stink of lavender. brass Buddha sitting in his improvised shrine. the fuchsia of my notebook. my starred wedding ring. voice-sounds floating from below. birdsong trickling in from above. the hunger.  

Wednesday, July 13

we read poems over and over. 
words take root, 
green shoots appear. 
foundations are disturbed.
something will blossom.

Tuesday, July 12


she is bright green, big, beautiful. she runs between the stones like a drip down a glass.

Monday, July 11

after the silent week and fetid water bubbling up
absence-of-feeling covers me like a shroud

Sunday, July 10

summer continues: yellow courgettes become alarming in their pregnancies

Saturday, July 9

after the long silence we use words again over orangina. we are saying more, and less. the man at the next table is drinking cheap white wine, his knees buckle as he tries to climb the step. back at the house, the white cat is still calling out her need.

Friday, July 8

old spider's web: repository for seed husks, leaf skeletons, dust

Thursday, July 7

the morning of our fourth day of silence

from inside the dharma hall, far away, I recognise my husband's cough and smile.

Wednesday, July 6

my body says to me: you haven't been in your body. come home.

Tuesday, July 5

tric tric tric
David snips fingers of lavender from the bush
accompanied by a bounteous bloom of scent

Monday, July 4

this morning everything - the flies on the lemons and oranges in the wooden bowl, the cooked-on grime on the old cooking pot, the baked earth, even this pestering wasp - is beautiful

Sunday, July 3

a text message puts a crack through everything, and old pain rises up like a wellspring

Saturday, July 2

A house to clean. I'll start with this mug here; splashed with orange blooms, its white interior stained like teeth.