TINY HAMMERS

The tiny hammer of first light begins to gently break shadows apart, exposing fine detail within. What looked like a giant stag is just a thorny rose bush. That spaceship is simply a shed. I hope Saturday keeps all the pieces. This all has to be put back together by dusk tonight.

STUTTERING RAIN

A morning varnished by overnight rain. Operation Evaporation begins. One downpour can't change a jaundiced grass. A conversation underfoot is underway. Precious water is teased back into a welcoming sky by the promises of a smooth-talking sun. A stuttering grass has no response. 

HOPE FROM THE PAST

 Two pictures of the same tree taken in my local park from different perspectives. I love the tiny sapling attempting to take root in the roots of the dead tree. The fragility of hope, born from the certainty of the past.

JONAHS AND THE WHALE

Schrodinger's removal van sits parked outside a house. The SOLD sign gives no clue as to whether it's empty or full. The giant vehicle looks out of place by the tiny cars in my street. As if a blue whale has beached itself upon suburbia. Three Jonah's emerge to start their day.

PUZZLING

Idle patches of grey sky are moved around by the wind as if it's attempting an aerial jigsaw. Tall trees help, pointing at pieces that fit. The wind's tried Jenga with recycling bins but gave up because it was rubbish. Sunday remains picture-perfect calm below this puzzling sky. 

THAT TWILIGHT KISS

In that twilight of Time

When Night and Day cross

They will still steal a kiss 

At the point love was lost.

For here sweethearts meet

By the clocks tender chimes

Feeling they're more

Than mere strangers in Time.

BLEATS

 White dots of sheep grip tight to a hill as their bleats tumble down in waves. It's difficult to give this all up and return to towny suburbia; where car horns are substitutes for bleats, where drivers grip tight their steering wheels, tumbling a way through a morning commute.

RIPE!

Monday holds its breath. The temperature slowly rises. There's a holiday feel to suburbia in the sun. Shorts; no longer the sole preserve of the postman. Lawns; still green, highlight houses with hoses. Street rubbish mouldly goes where no rubbish has gone b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ be-phwoar!

HEATWAVES

Melting haze, dissolving clouds,  brings forth burning sun 

through the everlasting gobstopper of blue sky.

Heatwaves suck,

and this is why.

GARDEN JEWELLS

The coming of the dawn reveals a yellowing of the lawn. Trapped within it, a thirsty memory of preceding days. I hose down dusty, outdoor, pot-plants. An arc of sparkling jewells, dancing within the refracted sunlight and water, is quickly swallowed by a greedy, grateful garden.

BUCOLIC

The rooftops of my back-garden neighbours are crowned with the hazy halo of a summer's morning. We don't qualify for bucolic in suburbia. We have to settle for bright days and clear skies and imagine our patch of green stretches on forever. This morning that is quite easy to do.

HIGH NOON

A car and a van simultaneously execute U-turns in my narrow street. Facing each other like gunslingers in High Noon, the tension's palpable. Who'll draw first and try to pass? Gary 'Mini' Cooper or Lee 'White Vanman' Cleef? Like in all good westerns I dive into a horse trough. 😉

CHANGE

Change is the only constant in an Etch-a-Sketch morning sky. Flecks of graphite grey cloud collide with each other and come Rorschaching into view. The face of a man with a big nose looks down and smiles as he shape-shifts into a dolphin. Overcast is rarely undersold.

High Coo/Haiku

A wood pigeon hides

Its high coo reverberates

Revealing this pun. 

THE PERFECT CUPPA

Never ever make yourself the perfect cup of tea,

For in that cup you'll reach the highest point that tea can be.

Nirvana can't be reached with every cuppa that you do, 

Just embrace the imperfections, you're alike, your brew and you.

STONY GROUND

Scratched scratchcards loiter around the litter bin outside the corner shop. Little cardboards balls lie scrunched where they were tossed. There are so many they look like a flowerbed of hope which has steadfastly refused to bloom. A litany of litter fallen upon stony ground.

MARY JANE

Mary Jane is not forgotten

Though her gravestone may be rotten,

Overgrown with moss & weed,

She once was here, a life to lead.

Now she sleeps here, undisturbed,

Weathering time with no concern,

Like Mary Jane, we all will scatter,

Mary Jane, you lived & mattered.

pic courtesy of 'Lutra'

- @reacctionary

BORDERS

Saturday smirks in the murk. It knows the rain is due. My gazebo flaps about as the wind tries to look up its skirt. My straggly lawn has welcomed dandelions and colourful weeds to cross its borders. I wonder if my lawn is 'woke'? I choose not to build a wall. Nature knows best.

MEN. TALKING.

At the corner shop a man opens a magazine. All the inserts fall to the floor. He looks at me. He rolls his eyes. I roll mine too. We tut. We sigh. We part. We meet again at the counter. We roll our eyes, tut, sigh, and chuckle. The eye roll-tut-sigh-chuckle. It's how we men talk.