a ten-bud peony bush
delicious spheres
scarlet showing
like a glimpse of knickers

frothy cones of buddleia

the colour of violet sweets

this old floor
stained
pock-marked
wrinkled

holding me up

I rub at the charcoal, try to reignite the scent of burnt wood. Instead black flakes adhere to my skin, pepper this page with full stops.

nearly eleven, and still no words on the page

morning promenade

taking in growth, slug damage, dry seedlings, forgotten plants, beauty

service

there is anguish hidden amongst the smiles & laughter

finally I cut some flowers for my office vase: orange wallflower, blue grape hyacinths, a daffodil.

a dribble of frozen wax draws a straight vertical line down this fat loyal candle

crumbs on the wooden kitchen surface
reveal the ghost of the circular breadboard

four washed-up bowls
post-soup
patiently
awaiting
their next
job

how do the primroses move?
like nodding-dog heads,
as they welcome the sun
with their pink-tipped petals opened wide...

a smear of white bird shit
on a flinty stone
up close, like powdered chalk
smelling of nothing

blackbird tucks into our fat balls
making me happy

everything fizzy.

the wind ruffles the tangerine coloured bush, the dangling feeders, the tufty grass, the trees, me.

rose-thorn after weeding: a black spot on my fingertip shows me where the pain is

coming home

scarf-clouds reveal a bare shoulder of the Malverns

a generous mound of pale yellow primroses keeps on flowering

morning meditation

the longest twenty minutes of the day
accompanied by birdsong
settled into silence

aquilegia shows off its curls and frills, emerging into cold spring, impatient for sun

Roshi brings in ivy leaves with mouse-tail-like stems
usually there are half a dozen in the kitchen
this morning there is one half-way up the stairs
he wanted to bring it to us in bed...

in the first moments of morning
wood-pigeons croon coooo coooo

the hoover breathes in noisily
and so do I
old machine

lush tv music rises up the stairs. our neighbour's rowdy italian seeps through the wall. roshi yawns a wet yawn & settles back into a circle. the clock ticks. insistent. i open my book.

turning away from the screen to see the Buddha in profile, the golden swirls of his hair, straight nose, hands gassho-ed, the curved folds of his robes, enlightenment lingering on his lips...

a sniff of lemon&ginger tea
pale-yellow flavoured
spicy
floral around the edges
brings me back to
my daily
small
stone

tiny hiding violet
head iris-shaped
leaves upright flumes
for collecting rain

claret-coloured new leaves echo the peeling bark, shards hanging down

a patch of blue
hemmed in by clouds
I could dive into it...