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

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

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

mobile phone

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

sunlight strobing through the treetops

waiting for the blown bulb to cool

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

all fingers and thumbs - counting travel Monopoly money

what should have been -

falling in love with the latin

names of seeds

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

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

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

bitter grapes among the sweet

a passing van dashes lightspots across walls and ceiling

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

painting

arcs of beetroot juice across glazed white ceramic

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

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

rainy day -

only the bulbshoots

stand tall

a bucktooth vampire - two pills pinched between her lips