RUNAWAY CHICKEN

Night lends Day an hour. Day promises to pay it back by tonight. A broken egg on the pavement makes me think of a runaway chicken. A discarded lottery ticket makes me think it wasn't them. An unkempt hedge makes me think of broken shears. Maybe that's where the chicken's hiding?

THE AMBULANCE AND THE BIRD

An ambulance waits patiently for a patient outside a house. A fettered bird breaks free from a bush and flaps and slaps itself into the air, transforming into graceful flight as it sweeps the sky clean.

I watch the ambulance.

What's the story?

I really hope it's to be continued.

THE LYING DAWN

Dawn. New light's born. It wobbles about until it finds form. Houses and gardens are still smudges and what I thought was a bush reveals itself to be a shed. Light this new is yet to learn honesty. Believe nothing. The flash new car down the road turns out to be a yellow skip!

A CUP ON A WALL

Uneven pavements reveal the ghost steps of those who have walked before. Telegraph poles criss-crossing the street are weavers looms of communication. Each car that's parked on my street signifies both the end of one journey and the start of another. 

A cup on a wall is lost.

AMPLIFIED SILENCE

Sunday arrives. Much like Saturday but without the Terms and Conditions. There is a cloistered, hushed feel about Sunday mornings. As if they're a present so precious you dare not open the box in case the noise invades the amplified silence.

I tear gently at the wrapping paper...

FOG

Fog mingles indiscriminately around town. Chimney tops are all that's visible from houses struggling to breathe. My wet lawn may be from overnight rain or the infinite number of miniature droplets which lie trapped in the air, waiting for a one-bar autumn sun to carry them away.

THE PICTURE ON THE BOX

Early look out of my window. It's darker than a chimney sweeps frown. The world is still being rearranged into Thursday. Most of todays pieces will be the same as yesterday. Yet life is all about moving these tiny pieces around while remembering the bigger picture on the box.

FIRST MUG OF TEA

One sip from you can calm the nerves,

Unleash the waves of warm reserve,

The thing with making just one pot,

I really don't know when to stop.

FIRST MUG OF TEA

I sup from my late Pap's mug:

"World's Best Grandfather"

Chipped, stained, strained

Over time and tea and time

And though I may struggle to remember his voice

I hear him telling me

That though we may sup from chipped mugs

We must savour such chipped memories.