every day brings disappointment and new growth.

a red glow in the church windows as if a small planet is floating above the pews

the young cats leap, ninja-style, in the garden. all over Malvern snowdrops are hanging their heads. the sun warms the wrinkled skin round my eyes.

day retreat

we talk about home, the spiritual path, death. we sit in the early spring sun. we eat chocolate cake. we sit and let the silence and stillness soak in.

a rosy cup of aniseed tea, sipped slowly

the Malvern sky

stripes of purple-grey near the horizon, alternating with pinky tangerine, and higher up a scattering of luminous pink cloudlets on blue...

The building and the people are the same. I don't belong her any more.

tuesday (now it's thursday) is lost

monday (now it's thursday) is lost

sunday (now it's thursday) is lost

sky change, early morning

deep navy
(lit up from behind)
with a smudge of pink
to ordinary grey

what arrived after breakfast

the memory of a kitten-tongue licking my nose in the night

sharp flakes of sea-salt swim in liquid caramel: saltiness seeps into sweet & colours the taste

a stain of tea-taste in my empty mouth

inside we consider a new life with the man behind the desk. outside sheep browse the fields.

the garden cold & wintered, the memory of reading on blankets in the sun fading

farmer's market

fudge with crushed maltesers in. veggie scotch egg. spinach quiche. happiness in a brown paper bag.

As Keats coughs his consumptive cough in 'Bright Star' I feel my lungs inside me, healthy, pink, and fill with fear.

snow

a light dusting: sifted sugar on the gentle dome of a sponge.
the clouds hold their palms towards me, shielding the hills from view.

today I saw a picture of a bird but not a bird

shrine with gold accents

intricate brocade on our aqua strip of sari, the rims of the deep blue offering cups, bluish candlelight flickering on the robes of the gold-leafed Buddha, a tongue of flame

an old ginger & lemon teabag rests on the soil of the pot-plant, waiting patiently to dissolve back into the earth

old snow, pocks in the grass

at the naming ceremony, we hold out two flowers to one year old Ramona. she takes one in each hand, beaming. she doesn't understand the words but she understands love.

the snow follows us from west to east. we stop in a service station and drink coffee. the chairs scrape on the floor and fill the cavernous space.

a cut on my hand (from paper?) itches persistently

Third day without my laptop. I float between webmail & facebook. I can't get at what will make me feel real.

I try not to try too hard.