Monday, January 31

view from my window

never noticed before - that arch of garden gate, sage green, scrolled metal, leading to who knows where...

Sunday, January 30

Whether today's tasks are finished or not the clouds bunch up, the day grows cold, light leaches out, like water splashed on earth.

Saturday, January 29

evesham abbey

we step into the hallowed space. it is bitterly cold. candy-coloured light streams through the windows. the silence seeps up into us, through our vulnerable soles.

Friday, January 28

Thursday, January 27

Wednesday, January 26

the view from here

greyed net curtains, mottled glass, a figure outside moves past like a goldfish under ice

Tuesday, January 25

having had my fill of talk, I stay inside the car and eat in silence

Monday, January 24

as I stop at the lights, a man standing on the pavement catches my eye and smiles. he isn't flirting. he doesn't want anything. I smile back.

Sunday, January 23

I dream of death and destruction, of hiding under piles of clothes and hoping I wouldn't be seen. For breakfast I eat ivory goat's cheese spread onto golden toast, drink crimson cranberry juice.

Saturday, January 22

Caroline buys mushrooms from Stroud farmer's market

A tangle of golden and cream, every one plucked (with care) from the mossy floors of the woods round here

Thursday, January 20

this cat has been sent to stand and purr beside my laptop, looking out of the window, rubbing her cheeks on the plastic corner of the screen, to remind me to look up, out, to notice the smoke rising from the chimney, to see that bird, to stop typing, to rub her fur, to hear her purr

Wednesday, January 19

Tuesday, January 18

Next door's shed

Two ladders leaning against the front, net curtains behind the glass. Two tangled bicycles. A collection of pots containing dead things on the porch. A white plastic paint pot. The inside left to my imagination. Moss taking over.

Monday, January 17

I sit and listen while the sky beckons to me from the window, flirting, showing off its clear blue shirt in the sun.

Sunday, January 16

poinsettia lives past its sell-by date, its dragon-red leaves blazing through the days

Saturday, January 15

mandolin player

he smiles down at his instrument as if it is a baby
making the most beautiful music he's ever heard

Friday, January 14

Wednesday, January 12

in somebody else's house

there is black behind the curtains. voices rumble elsewhere like water in the pipes. 'do you want my bathwater?' birds high voices. a door slams. later, crows wake me.

Tuesday, January 11

black plastic-wrapped hay-in-waiting, loose scarf ends flapping, the patient bales storing up sweetness

Monday, January 10

Walking back from St. Anne's Well

The tarmac path drops ahead of us like a water-chute. We trudge slowly, our knees holding our weight back. I imagine a body (my own, in forty years time) falling forwards. My skin suddenly the meniscus on milk, my bones matchsticks.

Sunday, January 9

walking my body out into the blue evening reveals twists of angry tension between my shoulder-blades. with each shaking step and each lungful of cold air they lose a little of their bite.

Saturday, January 8

The sun comes out

A crow swoops over the fallow field, holding something in his beak. Our soles squelch. As we walk through the orchard Kaspa says, 'they look like bones'.

Friday, January 7

mist-laden air slipping down from the sky to shake a grey-white sheet over the hills

Thursday, January 6

when I sit with her, a blankness opens up
containing all the things I haven't said

Wednesday, January 5

Tuesday, January 4

journey

maroon and dull-brown hedges like an overgrown beard
black birds gather in the tops of the trees
a woman limps her way up the hill slowly, slowly

Monday, January 3

walking meditation between light

flickering candle in the hearth
steady flame on the shrine
yellow streetlamp in a dark morning sky
the shining golden cheek of the Buddha

Sunday, January 2

I follow Silver out into the garden and across the lawn. The snow has sunk into the earth. There is new silver-furred green at the tips of the branches. I go back inside. Everything carries on growing without me.

Saturday, January 1

huge shining orange globes hang and spin from the new year garden trees