Called up the stairs - the offer of a second cup of tea.

cooled pool of wax, translucent, dull

impatiently scrubbing a layer of dirt from this bench
before I can paint it the colour of cornflowers

In Shelford deli

Nana asks for one bakewell tart for now
and two to take home for later.
I like her style.

my wardrobe
now mostly red
Buddhist uniform

poor hydrangea
toppled by too-heavy blooms & the gusty wind

the sound of rain

what more can I say?

two small girls on pink bicycles. one has got the knack - she sways from side to side as she pedals faster and faster, laughing. the other keeps losing her nerve, slowing, putting down her feet. their mum watches from the park bench, tightening their pink helmets, saying encouraging words. the girl who is biking fast falls off, her mum runs to pick her up, holds her, and sets her down when she's ready. she gets back on. they both keep on biking.

a faint dragging pain in my lower back
the percussive sound of Fatty scratching
wind moving bits of the garden around
hunger pulls me away from the screen

just before sleep
the vertical gold slash in our nembutsu painting
the friendly pillar-box red of my drying cotton trousers

Sitting meditation with the doors open

Cool air keeps returning to brush against my bare right arm. Thoughts skip past - outside coming in and inside going out, where is the boundary?