write a small stone (& hurrays & thankyous)

in honour of this year's River of Stones, rather than reading a small stone today I'd like you to write one and post it here. here's our Hurrays & Thankyous post with links to all our marvellous guest bloggers.

while I'm at it, a huge thank you to all the readers of a small stone over the years. you rock. (hee hee)

_/\_ (deep bow)

the hills draw their mists around them all day, trying to warm their small animals, mosses & rocks

Outside: drizzle. Inside: the computer screen. Leonard Cohen's gravelly voice calls me from downstairs.

after a walk on the hills

the usual talk of relationships, meaning, death. sipping our lemonade. looking out towards Wales.

in someone else's notebook: a biro scrawl, 'A Year of Service'. what does it mean?

the thin piping sound of a bird from outside
makes me hungry for the hills

after service, stone passing

when I'm not watching, the fat church candle gutters & dies. we carry on talking.

I didn't write anything down: Tuesday is lost.

nothing more delicious than finding a sleepy cat & making him purr.... =^..^=

blind girl in Birmingham art gallery

she skims her fingers over the intricate stone sculpture, starting at the middle, working her way out. the woman reads information from the wall - dates, names. the man with them stands to one side, looking bored. the girl can't see him.

He's in the supermarket early, like me. He carries his own unwashed smell around with him like a planet with its own atmosphere. He hesitates in front of the fruit juice. This one, or this?

a dry ache in my head, my blood sludgy, the sun comes up and goes down nonetheless.

The soil is dry. I empty the dregs of tea into the bathroom sink and fill the mug with water. I carry it into the office. I pour water into the pot, where it sinks down towards the roots. The plant drinks. What ordinary miracles.

'Can you bear it?'
'No!'
We go back to talking of everyday things. It cannot be born. And it must be.

Tsuki kitten, post-op

they have cut her open and taken something out. hours later she races around the house, wanting food, wanting to play, wanting to go outside. her stitches look raw, frightening. her body is healing, all by itself. they have cut her open and taken something out.

scraped ice from the car backs up into sparkling concertinas.

miniatures from a morning walk

a red berry smeared on the pavement. a crop of tiny cyclamen, white & pink. letters scraped into a windscreen's ice. a smudge of reddish dog shit. three brushstroke people on the peak of the hill.

caroline bought me love tea in a fuchsia box: 'organic rose, chamomile & lavender flower tea to warm your heart'. heart warmed.

tangled shadow of dried poppies, long stalks & plump heads, each topped with a wiggly hat. as if someone has painted this intricacy onto the white wall. next to it, fake coals wink orange & lit gas makes snake tongues.

the skin of my eyes is taut & dry
as if scraped by a cold wind
I blink and smile

inside is a slice of chocolate marble cake, a pot of weak tea, our voices
we try to make sense of the tangled threads of our lives
outside is the wide world

at Caroline's pond

the memory of yesterday's kingfisher spotting
(my first)
returns in a brilliant flash of blue

in searching for a picture on the internet, I lose myself

Kaspa cleared last year's dead petunias, tall straw-coloured skeletons. What's left is bare brown earth. Lack and promise.

finding knots in her back with my fingertips and easing them out, like untangling string or ticking boxes, but accompanied by love

morning service

carrying the flame from candle to candle
trailing sketched echoes of light

sending out my attention in a circle

a cough from behind a closed door. radio noise. faint shadows of raindrops against the sky. fatty's black bottlebrush tail. my diary open at today, telling me what to do. my thirst.

Tsuki kitten shows us the white of her belly & purrs & purrs. She's on someone else's lap. I want her on mine.

incense minus fragrant smoke = dust

monday, malvern hills

the bullying wind pushes at my coat and snatches at my breath. moss on the hill leans towards lime green. a half sliver of moon has been left behind from the night before, or arrived early. on the way home, we pass a tree overwhelmed with scarlet berries.

at midnight we stop dancing and let off party poppers. it burns the skin at my thumb. in the air are paper streamers and the smell of burning.