as I gaze at the shimmering leaves, sunlight appears like a song fading in

we eat our bananas on the church bench. just over from us, a mother and daughter spend time at a grave. afterwards, we walk home across the hill sprinkled with lambs.

clouds in a hurry, buoyed by the sun, sweep the ridge of the hills

Fatty sleeping in the conservatory

Chin in the air, his makes noises that mean, "I'm sleepy. I'm happy. There's nothing I want."

the silhouette of a weatherpheasant against a block of blue

amongst busyness

all around the house, Buddhas sit quietly patient

Ezra Pound brings me my small stone today

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

*

Ezra Pound

I light the candle. I wait. She doesn't come.

Window

Movement - a goldfish under thick ice, today I'm a ghost in the glass.

the birds don't care. they have places to go, things to eat. they sweep the sky and remind us to begin again.

bright halogen fire encourages me to flirt with too-hot too-hot

candle-flame tip: a snake's tongue tasting the air

She's heavy, her skin is bad, her eyes are dilated, she lurches from side to side as she walks.
He's old, he leans against a post, he is trying to catch his breath and it won't come back.
In her tight jeans her legs are skinny, much too skinny. She pushes a pram. Her make-up is thick.
I don't know them. I worry about them all.

like a million fingertips on skin, the soft pitter patter of morning rain

Morning service

Look at the sunshine glinting on the hanging golden earlobe of the Buddha!

The best roast potatoes ever

I ate too many.

Ramona has been in this world for ten whole days. Her tiny fist grips fingers, her arms and legs find willed movement, her face is ever-changing. She gazes at something beyond us.

garlic bulbs poke up their long pale tongues, tasting the bright spring air

pausing in the midst of busy

the hill:
still
there

a call for unwanted things

Behind the gusting wind and baby Isobela crying through the walls, the rag-and-bone man croons: Ah-HIeeeee-oh-n. Ah-HIeeeee-oh-n. Ah-HIeeeee-oh-n.

clear lit skies, a deeper blue the higher I tilt my chin...

the vet listens to his heart, looks into his throat, feels the shape of his body through his fur all the way down his length. he is healthy for now.

four things in this room are alive: a cat, a person, a hyacinth in bud, a Christmas poinsettia clinging on

after hours of reading small stones, we are glutted with images

go-carting

she comes upstairs away from the others and takes off her helmet. her head falls forwards, she is holding back tears. her skin is luminous. i want to tell her she is beautiful

not even a tiny crack for a small stone today

alone in Cat's house

borrowing this sofa, this warmth, this chocolate-spread-covered-crumpet, this broadband, this music, this house, this breath, this body

ghost sun masquerades as moon