ANCIENT SYMPHONY

 I wake early to catch the last ancient forest sounds before heading home. Every tree sings along to a constant cacophony of birdsong. Unlike the odd thrush or pigeon I may hear back home, this is nature's full orchestra, a symphony for the ages, played to primordial perfection.

BOB

 Our dear old dog, Bob, who passed away in January used to bark at every letterbox delivery. Now when I hear the letterbox go I swear I hear a bark. But of course it's only a memory. 

Pavlov was definitely onto something, although I appear to have been conditioned via love. 

🐾♥️

HEARTY COUGH

It's mufti day for Saturday as it dresses down for the weekend. A cat on a wall is a Slinky at a fashion show. Dark clouds, fixed in uncertainty, colour the sky with doubt. A neighbour smoking a fag on his doorstep gives me a cheery wave and a throaty cough. Tar very much, mate!

LITTLE BOXES...

Saplings peek over a chain-link fence to see how their houses grow. A large branch reminisces. A broken wooden fence is a metaphor for the cost of progress. Is the 'Danger. Keep Out' sign meant for me or the trees? 

Little boxes. On the hillside. And they all look just the same.

THE OTHER SIDE OF YESTERDAY

A light dusting of snow has fallen overnight, distinguishing houses with salt and  pepper rooftops. A snowless, tarmac rectangle under a parked car gives me a glimpse into the past. My lawn is flecked with white. The grass was indeed greener on the other side of yesterday.

LANDING RIGHTS

The puffy grey cheeks of a sleet-laden sky. A box filled with polystyrene is a snow-capped mountain. A single can of opened beer, forlorn atop a garden wall, parties all alone. I catch the first drops of sleet as they fall, rain and snow perpetually arguing over landing rights.

WORD SCULPTOR

I chip words and phrases

from languages block

I've a really large chisel

It's a really large rock

With shingle from language

And pebbles and gravel 

To pave my word journey

To walk far and travel.

YOU'VE BEEN FRAMED

The sky's the colour of dirty ice as the new day filters through this slushy light. Monday manages a weak smile; a pallid, sickly, insipid attempt at colour. Monday with the prison pallor. Monday is a wrong 'un, they say, but Monday is innocent, merely framed by Sunday & Tuesday.

THE POTHOLE GODS

Early drive 7am. The sky's the colour of cabbage water & potholes now rule the Earth. Unmanned roadworks & temporary traffic lights now rule the town. 

"As flies to wanton boys are we to the Pothole Gods. They fill them for their sport."

(Shakespeare-after driving in Northampton)