Hope

Three bruise coloured bulbs
crackle
in my palm

Winter walk

A sickly sun skulks

behind

beech trees

On the way home

A solitary tractor
Mobbed by squalling gulls.

Mid-Afternoon

Voices murmur in the next room. Soft vowels fuse into warm streams that meld with the sluggish tick of the clock. Daydreaming, I lean against the smooth wall, feel the vibration of words through stone. A litany; a prayer.

Along the way

A crossroads
and, to the north,
a narrow dirt track, where boot and hoof have made their mark over
centuries.
Above
the canopy whispers secrets of the long gone, their voices whipped away
by the wind.
I tread where they once trod, feel the memory of their footfall;
the path a palimpsest,
where my own boot makes its
mark.

Warmth

Sunlight presses through the window; my numb body stirs to life.

The Summerhouse

A peacock butterfly sleeps on the wall of my summerhouse;
Eyes watch me on folded wings.