31.7.11

30.7.11

bouquet

he stands with the bouquet at arm's length, as if it comes with him, not from him

29.7.11

taste

these grapes look tired and pinched but they don't taste it

27.7.11

doodles

the beams of the new roof go in like a telephone doodler cross-hatching the corner of their page

26.7.11

fallen

the leaves we cut fall beside those that severed themselves

25.7.11

burst

on the black-eyed susan a short burst of butterfly

24.7.11

grey

sunday's monsters were grey and billowed and despite having no apparent mouths consumed the best part of the day

23.7.11

still

still life
a photo halts
the flow of blood

22.7.11

reach

this cat never tires of trying to reach for butterflies

21.7.11

20.7.11

19.7.11

train

shaky film of a steam train, his reflection caught in the green paint gleam

18.7.11

smells

when she's gone
the house smells of her
drying mint

17.7.11

rain

all day downpours - even my favourite songs about rain get washed away

16.7.11

two

on her forearm
those two freckles
one darker

15.7.11

moth

tall man
pale hands cupping a moth
back to the night

14.7.11

paper

leaving the free paper in the letterbox - one end peeking at rainclouds

13.7.11

decorate

black flies on glass beads decorate a lilac lamp shade

12.7.11

ragged

today we are smaller poppies with more ragged edges

11.7.11

sky

a break in the treetops
filled with sky
and the sound of planes

10.7.11

photo

the years have not just grown the child but coloured him in and sharpened his edges - more of a scribble, less of a scrawl

9.7.11

half

half a day moon - she leaves sooner than we think

8.7.11

boxes

Two boxes. One full of light bulbs, the other books. One heavy, one light.

7.7.11

recycle

I recycle old papers that claim to have my poetry written on them.

6.7.11

sky

to the south they are scaffolding the sky

5.7.11

beans

he brings five beans in a plastic bag - our own still small as punctuation

4.7.11

birds

on the head
of a rusty penguin sculpture
a sleeping pigeon

3.7.11

3

page 3 - just as I read about the plane one passes over

2.7.11

key

barely a breeze to shift the shadow of the shed key

1.7.11

creaking

4 am – I listen to the house creaking as it listens to me – both warmed by sunrise

31.1.11

conclusion

For the past thirty one days I have written something every day. Even if it was only five words. Each settled quietly on my notebook page. No fanfares, no expectations. Most were a little shy, unsure and unwilling to be introduced to each other. Some would not budge from their chosen seat. Others stormed off without leaving a forwarding address.

Slowly but surely each little grain of sand formed a line leading me from the dry lookout of the promenade down to the water’s edge. Each urged me to dip my feet and paddle. I’m please those words had the patience for me. And perhaps I’ll repay each by tucking it to bed within an oyster shell and waiting for a pearl to grow.

In other words – I’m going to take each one of these small stones, these true moments from my January, and help them grow into something bigger, something brighter and perhaps a little more unruly. I’ve long found life more palatable with a hefty spoonful of sugar to help it down!

sitting in this doorway, framed and warming till the sun pulls away

30.1.11

She doesn’t realise she is touching her hair. She doesn’t know I have noticed.

29.1.11

mobile phone

I hear him rummage in the freezer for the bread rolls.

28.1.11

27.1.11

26.1.11

a black hyphen of grease still on the back of my hand

25.1.11

all fingers and thumbs - counting travel Monopoly money

24.1.11

what should have been -
falling in love with the latin
names of seeds

23.1.11

lips meet, together yet apart - a greasy mark on the rim of the glass

22.1.11

pyramids of apple and slices of fudge – we could build a house from these

21.1.11

light plays from a single web-strand plucked by the wind

19.1.11

a passing van dashes lightspots across walls and ceiling

18.1.11

talk of welding, gypsies and the time he swallowed a matchstick

17.1.11

painting

arcs of beetroot juice across glazed white ceramic

16.1.11

Page 357, top right corner, squashed fly, one wing.

15.1.11

I remember when there was a plug of cotton wool in the neck of pill bottles.

14.1.11

rainy day -
only the bulbshoots
stand tall

13.1.11

a bucktooth vampire - two pills pinched between her lips