After our Buddhist service I show off with my practised tongue-twister, The Leith Police Dismisseth Us. Howard trumps me with Peggy Babcock.

day 31 of 31 = day 1. always day 1.

My computer fan sighs heavily. Fatty washes his thigh-fur with gurglings & loud wet licks. I open my manuscript and am scared by the long white blankness.

this heated bone china, splashed with grey-blue flowers, warms the tips of my fingers. steam dampens my cheeks & the scent of bergamot connects me to comfort.

wind pushes huge eucalyptus branches around, riffles the grass. inside: trad jazz on the radio. our old cat makes a happy creaky noise & goes back to sleep.

in the silence after the singing the love floods in

a fizzing flurry in my stomach. a heavy ache between my shoulder blades. as I tune in, I look out of the window. the dial-a-ride van driver is helping an elderly lady along her front path. she inches along, her head bent permanently forwards. she keeps a close eye on the ice under her feet. for a moment, we are the same person.

downstairs the bread machine starts mixing... a low sinister pulsing whirr

I run out into the deep snow in my socks, shouting, to take a tiny goldcrest from Roshi's claws. I hold him in my cupped hands and he trembles. I untangle the wet cat hair from his feet. We stand in the kitchen for some time, I want to warm him, and then I peek inside my hands and he escapes to perch in the orchid. I take him outside but I don't know where to put him that will be safe. Here? Here? I open my hands. He leaves me. Will he find enough food? How long will he live?

this generously-proportioned pigeon chooses the slate-grey washing line pole to pose on, matching plumage, with an accent of white at his neck that reflects the snow

the jagged song of people scraping snow from their drives

Roshi, sleeping

flopped on the top of the sofa with one long arm stretched out, and underneath the plump pad of his paw is Barbie-pink

Namo Amida Bu.

snowflakes fill up the cat's footprints, leaving a trail of gentle grey indentations in the bluish glow

a friend brings gingerbread baked with real ginger & real love

a glimpse of the pale chalky blue of a pigeon outstretched in flight chimes with the powdered-white lawn

a magpie's voice - the rattles you spin and spin at a football match

Highlights

A clutch of optimistic pale yellow primroses. Gold shining from the dripped metal breast of our iron-cast robin. On the hills, streaks, sifted patches and paths of snow. Down the garden, glowing through the gloom, the drooped cup of a single ghostly hellebore.

the trampled lawn has white sifted over it. the high-pitched glide of a blackbird, effortless. the sky is pale and wan behind the naked line of tall trees. Roshi watches the birds eat.

the empty cardboard of a spent toilet roll. a comma-shaped stain on the carpet. snotty tissues. brown leaves on the plant. tiny dead fly on the lampshade. a small pain in my shoulder. the bits we skip over.

through the window

the echoes of a train. a cool breeze. the straining squeak of a car starting up. another train, this one louder. birdsong scattered over.

how did that get there?

a tiny glass bead between my four and fifth toe

candle ritual

the flame accompanies me through these hours of lying down words. it shivers under my breath. it sucks up wax, offering heat and light. it sputters out.

a night broken into pieces. fragments of dream. the dead weight of a cat on my feet. faint light at the window. today - a different continent.

caramel-colour & full of succour, the tendrils of smell that float up from the kitchen where someone is cooking me lunch!

dark morning. hellebore. drooping balloon skirt, ghostly white, promising a face I will lift & gaze into & see god.

the woodburner's aura gathers three warming cats

after six months the goldfinches have found our feeder. a pair dip their heads delicately forwards and take the small black seeds into their mouths. they splash their glorious colour around.

today the grass is lush & green, asking me if I want to come out & play

We sit near a family with three children. The young girl screeches and the sound soon drives us away to the other end of the ferry. These pressures inside families, who can't leave each other behind.

the golden ghost of our tulip-shaped lamp on the window - grey street, grey sky - New Year Day's light already draining away