before the filmed bird can hatch the phone rings

a dulled gold envelope escapes the pile and drops to the floor

ninety degrees

She tilts the chargeable night light - exclaims surprise as it comes to life. I remember talk of animals hypnotised when you turn them on their back.

sunlight sticking to the leaves at the top of the tree

after folding the washing, the smell left hanging

rain spitted windows confuse the view

it rains throughout our conversation, even when he says it has stopped

flying by - a crisped brown butterfly or a purposeful leaf

a small pile of salvaged postage stamps

choosing the loose banana from beneath the bunch

angled so winter sun graces her stiff side

topless neighbour crosses his threshold, white belly wobbling

introduction

I used to be a writer. I used to write. Every day. About everything and sometimes most pleasantly about nothing. I haven’t written much for the last six months. I’ve had my reasons.

But I want to write again one day. I want to see if I can still line up words on a page and make them lead me to somewhere unusual. Or let them circle something familiar and keep it safe.

So this space is a new place to start trying to write again. I’m keeping it clear and uncluttered. The words I lay here are liable to be small and light and blown away before too long.

In other words - from the first day of the new year I will be trying to find and share a small stone for every day of January. I won’t be the only one. Further details through the badge on the sidebar.