dozing

the young crow natters at a dozing gull

bouquet

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

taste

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

doodles

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

fallen

the leaves we cut fall beside those that severed themselves

burst

on the black-eyed susan a short burst of butterfly

grey

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

still

still life

a photo halts

the flow of blood

reach

this cat never tires of trying to reach for butterflies

confession

I admit that I lied about the pinecones

a jar full of contradiction (and dried mint)

I inhale clarity and winter mornings and shades of deep summer green

train

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

smells

when she's gone

the house smells of her

drying mint

rain

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

two

on her forearm

those two freckles

one darker

moth

tall man

pale hands cupping a moth

back to the night

paper

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

decorate

black flies on glass beads decorate a lilac lamp shade

ragged

today we are smaller poppies with more ragged edges

sky

a break in the treetops

filled with sky

and the sound of planes

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

half

half a day moon - she leaves sooner than we think

boxes

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

recycle

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

sky

to the south they are scaffolding the sky

beans

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

birds

on the head

of a rusty penguin sculpture

a sleeping pigeon

3

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

key

barely a breeze to shift the shadow of the shed key

creaking

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