big rustly paper bags are Roshi's favourite place to be inside

background

computerfan hum
breath in & out
miniature squelchings of a washing cat

after the service

spiced berry tea from a purple box
everything glowing golden

even the snowberries are no more

early morning
we drive through the common

at the place where grass meets tarmac
brandishing his tail

fox

kora harp & shakuhachi flute
bathe us
in
love

(listen here)

art therapy
colours & shapes comes out and I don't know what they are
yet

five blackbirds gorge on orange pyracantha berries, the tree basking in stage-light morning sun.

a last apple still hangs, half-eaten, half-rotten, containing seed

the fall of water nags... 'fix the guttering! fix the guttering!'

a day of dull pain and rain. glimmers of golden autumn leaves.

Roshi moves through the grass, picking up each paw and placing it carefully. The apple-tree has only yellow tatters of leaves left.

before breakfast we discuss ex-boyfriends and bad dreams and the terror of having to be a grown-up. then we eat good sourdough bread and jam.

there is a brittleness which breaks down and soft tears come out

walking down seven sisters road, I realise how tiny my usual corner of the planet is

a fragment of red plastic

it's cold outside
in here we eat biscuits and listen to each other

a huge chaotic splattering of dark coffee onto the pale carpet...

no flowers left

in my 1/3 milk bottle, a variegated sprig of leaves & nodding bunches of tangerine pyracantha

small kindnesses on the train

the woman across the aisle tells me the toilet is 'a long long way away' as if she regrets me having to walk so far through the swaying carriages.

we've had small conversations about how cold it is and the delays. when the girl next to me gets off, she leans over and interrupts my music to say 'goodbye' with a smile.

the train conductor commiserates with a passenger about the delays. 'I just want to get everyone home'. he sounds like he means it.

a few last snowberries
ghostly & plastic
hold on

bubblegum pink trousers glowing in the darkening afternoon 

she rides her broom horsie up and down the street

all day burning conifer in the garden.
the fire has a white-tangerine-hot heart.
the cats skirt the edges of the heat.
we are steeped in smoke.
molecules cling to my hair like burrs.

the orange berries grow paler, cling onto their stems

the gentle miniature-horn-instrument toots of Roshi's snore
his head heavy on my left wrist as I type

Westonbirt Arboretum

acer trunks
soak in puddles
of brilliant red

fuzzled by an ill fog
moments of brightness break through

even fireworks

becoming tiring

on still loving our new woodburner

a steady flicker of tangerine
keeps november at bay

the gentle rumble of Roshi's purr-engine 

pulls my eyes from the screen.

he grins at me with his eyes.