a yellow spider accompanies us to Dilwyn
his little round body filled with life

Dexter calves: coffee, caramel, conker

scrubbing at the breakfast tin releases a savoury bloom of mushroom scent

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(a junk comment on one of my old small stones provides me with today's small stone.)

fall

at first I think 'disease' but the leaves are simply yellowing with age & getting ready to let go of their height

her voice contains treacle, gravel, earth, shiny ribbon & tiny (lethal) shards of glass

what's here? tight neck. hollow stomach. those creaking pops in my muscles as they begin to get permission to relax. saxaphone on the radio. the weak afternoon light shining through the blue-green leaves. ground solid under my feet. i let the world work on me.

joss-stick smoke clings to my clothes like burrs

sleeping cat:

small noise from the circle of fur on the chair, half-snore, half-satisfied-sigh

Three small boys in fighting costumes after we feign fear

"Don't worry, you won't really get killed. We're dressed up like this. We're only children."

inching across a path on the hills

zesty lemon yellow Pale Tussock caterpillar with his urticating hairs, a crimson tail behind

old cat
freshly wounded ears
his sap still rising, still rising

wildlife seen from the hut at the bottom of the garden

brash magpies
many busy-busy squirrels
the blue-grey edge of a pigeon
heavily pregnant spider
two shy cats, both with collars, one black, one white
a graceful slug with black velvet optical tentacles

luxury

she brings me a hot water bottle
under the eider-down
it stays toasty against my toes
until morning

a late red rose
echoes
autumn sun
illuminating
a bright
plastic peg

wood pigeon's favourite chant
hoo whohooo whoo... hoo hoo. hoo whohoo whoo... hoo hoo.

cat asleep on the chair
all the muscles in his face loose
dreaming of dressing-gown-belts
just poking underneath the door

bone china mug splashed with orange lilies
carbon-copy of the one we smashed
this incarnation can be my favourite now

Dark sky. A sprinkle of white birds drift and turn, cinders.

Petunias

We have neglected them. They have been blooming for us since May: deep fuchsia pink, cross-hatched purple, salmon. They are tired now, leggy, but in this autumn chill they continue their push towards eternity.

saturday chat

chose a chewy chocolate brownie, chomp chomp chomp

Fatty's life-without-us

As we get ready to pull away in the car, we watch a strange man petting Fatty. Do they know each other? The next morning, I pull another cat's claw from the skin inside his ear where it is embedded.

Somebody tells me something about someone I don't really know. Now I don't want to know them any better.

on stopping, the weight of not-having-stopped settles in my chest and slowly leaks away into the floor

oatcake battleground

slices of beetroot leaking their blood
tainting virginal snow-white cream cheese

the echo of coffee sour in my mouth

faint dinging of far away church bells, drambledrambledramble of the washing machine, 1920s jazz shimmying from the radio. Fatty's purr.

in the conservatory

conversation punctuated with sipped swallows of hot lemon-ginger

party

dark cherry juice in a wine-glass
curled dog on a comfy old armchair
strawberry-jewelled cake with 40 candles
will anyone like me?
children running around in big dresses
beautiful music lifting us up

three small stones today, all forgotten