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.

Sunday

Slow, unfurling;
A chance for my mind to wander amongst the flowerbeds.

Roots

The gnarled trunk of the Scots Pine gives an anchor to my scattered life.

Garden Birdwatch,

I wait
behind glass
for winged messengers to appear.

Hedgehog

A gap beneath the fence - the gateway to another world.

Back Garden at Night

I tip my head back;
I am swallowed up by the night sky.

Garden Fence

The scarlet breast
of a Robin
lifts
the heart.

Aeroplane

An aeroplane drones and I drift back to childhood: the smell of mown grass, the thump of a ball on tarmac, egg yolk trickling down my chin.

Bookshop

I run my hand over the cover. Voices speak to me from the past.

Across the Bar

Her damson fingernails curl around the wine glass.
Lips tight with disdain.

Winter Morning

The Downs are brooding
Beneath
A fish-grey sky.

Sign

Black trainers dangling from a tree. What strange totem is this?

January

A pewter sky
Over the Downs,
I walk onwards through
A web of mist.

Voice

Your words cut through me
Sharp as Downs flint