the deep pink orchid falls, bark scatters, her delicate neck snaps.
the two jewels rest their dying chins on the rim of a glass of water.

an insect floats in his element in zig-zags, his legs hanging down. an inch of tea in my mug, cold. the white blossoms on the buddleia blaze.

next door's salmon roses - plump and luminous in the draining light

sheep's wool: off-white, pulled between my fingers like toffee, put in my pocket and carried home...

buddleia

from here I can't tell if the few snowy cones of blossom are the last, lingering, or the first, blooming ahead of their sisters

buzzard

he swoops between our cars from the hedge with his rust-coloured wings, metres away, magnificent, and disappears into the seamless blue

bluebell smear underneath rapeseed shout

Leaning low in the grass and speaking to my cat, I catch a glimpse of a grain of white. I recover two delicate beads in the shape of dolphins, two millimetres each. Fallen from someone's neck, on the brink of oblivion. Treasure.

on the other side of the window pane a fringe of bamboo fingers wave hello

my old cat is getting thin. the tattered white jasmine flowers have dissolved into the grass. i soak the young petunia plants and gratitude soaks through me.

lime-green periscopes of fern rise through the dead

In his second week of working in a chip shop

He asks for the order seven times. Two small sausages, two fish and three chips. He's stopped from putting the plastic bag where it will melt. He smiles at his mistakes. He wants to get it right. People get impatient, despite themselves. 'He's a good kid really', the owner says to the customers, and we all feel better.

tulips

upturned spanish skirts in poster-paint yellow, raspberry ripple, virgin white, purple-brown

my favourite part of sunday service: the part where your robe slips from your shoulder and reveals us all as ordinary human beings

bluebells hover above ground, a mist of spring. dark greens, the snap of twigs. at the exit of the woods the fields drop away. in the bowl of the vista, neat rows of poplars blaze orange.

trying not to let Friday slip away.....

Where did Thursday go?

where did Wednesday go?

early morning chanting: just me & Buddha & birds

bitter finger of chocolate, hints of coffee and concentrated sun

a bird-shadow dances down the trunk of the tree

dharma group

we talk about enlightenment, life after death, how we can help each other, how we might be saved. outside, the sun shines hard and the grass is growing.

early mornings alone with the golden Buddha...outside another golden face is warming the earth

they are in the mid-winter of their lives. they sit on the bench opposite and talk easily. he looks at the tree heavy with white blossom. i hope we both get that far.

writing in the cold shrine room

cream fake-fur wrapped around my shoulders: i am polar bear

this morning's incense breathes out molecules of gritty black
my lungs gobble them up - they taste of bonfires

ordering more gold leaf

within five minutes we have the same idea -
this black Buddha wants to shine

jerusalem artichoke: crispy golden skin, creamy white flesh, taste of the forests

gift

in Southwark Cathedral's cool dark space, the choir are in dress-rehearsal.
the threads of their voices weave a golden net which lifts me up closer to God.

stroking Silver in springtime

great tufts of fur float off like dandelion fluff