on my writing desk

new half-milk-bottle full of blowsy luxurious blue-stained pink hydrangea

the mooli seeds have sprouted: green panda ears

curled up asleep in a half-open drawer 

Roshi can never resist getting inside or underneath

lifeless butterfly: bright melancholy tatter

elderly man, back no longer straight, holds four leads in his right hand. each lead attached to one dachshund. as they jauntily walk, their ears jangle.

in digging the vegetable patch
a fresh pink worm is sliced in two

runner bean plants demolished by slugs. spiders move in.

lit-up silver gossamer zig-zags between the swirls of cane.

Clerkenwell Crescent

behind neat curtains
lurk sour disappointments
and moments of fierce joy
under neat conifer hedges
lurk ragged weeds
and creatures with sharp teeth in dark holes

we're in the shade (Fatty & me), but the sun is still spotlighting the rose campion's shocking pink flowers on silver candelabras

house warming

all afternoon our new house brims with friends & cake & laughter. this is what turns it irrevocably into home.

monster slugs have eaten through the big tough courgette leaves

decorating

this morning: floral wallpaper
tonight: deep raspberry

bread makes itself quietly. it reminds me of its existence by reaching around from the kitchen with sweet yeasty fingers. it brings memories of home-made blackcurrant jam. it can hardly wait to be consumed.

rain.
patterns of light smudges in front of the dark trees.
rain.
finding its way downwards, always downwards.
rain.
bringing out fat slugs to eat our courgette leaves.
rain.
soft continuous sound as it clothes everything.
rain.

deep in the night, the noise of the hacking up of hair balls travels up the stairs

spilt milk: each spattered drop a white watery world

arriving home from camping

a slug of custardy mud clings to the pumped-down airbed

Buddhafield mud

I rescue two small boys from the ankle-high sticky mud. each boot reluctantly released with a great sucking kiss-noise. their mum is unimpressed. 'I told them not to go in there'. I am glad they got stuck.

first Buddhafield

we arrive in the rain. a naked man slops past, bare feet mud-shod. everybody smiles at us.

the pumpkin at the bottom of the garden is growing as we sleep...

wednesday was lost - no small stone

tuesday was lost - no small stone

yolky upside-down flower trumpets the arrival of this garden's first courgette

early. an orange bushy tail disappears from view between the raspberry canes, far below. ordinary domestic cat, or fox? even the word has a smell of wildness.

view from the window

tree-carpeted hills on the horizon, grey-sky smearing at the boundary between matter & air

Teenagers on the train. Danny is the one with black-framed glasses, a mess of curly hair, military jacket. Silent & brooding. He is the one carrying dark clouds. He is the cool one. He is the one nobody understands. Twenty years ago, I would have wanted to save him. I want to save him.

eight minutes gazing at the green through double glass doors: a long cool drink

window: an hour of sun & the sage reduces by two-thirds, wheeled off in our pink barrow

drizzle, greyness, more drizzle: the candle on my desk still burns

the sweet earthy smell of fresh bread wafting up the stairs with beckoning fingers...

too far to the bottom of the garden...

armfuls & armfuls of wilted weeds find their way into the skip