THE UNDERSTUDY

Friday. Ever The Weekend's understudy. Line-perfect yet certain in just one thing. That it will be seen, if at all, as a small credit at the bottom of The Weekend's programme notes. It takes its own seat with a gentle smile, as we all barge past looking only for our own.

THE QUEUE TO OUR WORLD

A fresh, cold Wednesday nips at my hands like an overenthusiastic puppy. A bus stop resembles a miniature steam train as each waiting passenger emits a tiny plume of vapourised breath which looks like vanishing thoughts. Each lost in their world, queuing patiently to join ours.

DEVELOPING MORNING

As a desert of darkness fades an oasis of houses appears at the back of my garden. I've caught the morning in the dark room with the negatives. I'm comforted to know the start of each day still requires such a drawn-out, considered process. I need time to develop in the mornings.

ITCHY FEET

I once had itchy feet, I tried to scratch them,

But they ran off when I did, I tried  to catch them,

They're living somewhere close, they wrote to say,

I'm guessing they're about two feet away. 

Thanks to Ian McMillan and Peter Hamill for inspiring this two-footed, nonsense poem.

GAMBLE

At the corner shop a man picks up a Sorry For Your Loss card and is lost in thought. A woman enters in a pink pyjama onesie. I wonder if she knows she's sleep-shopping? The pies in the heated pie machine sit next to the scratch cards. Both are a bit of a gamble, if you ask me.

BRIEF RHYTHMS

The faint hum and the distant cadence of a passing goods train. The frantic shaking of a small bush and a large bird as they rid themselves of each other. The staccato taps of a stilleto shoe. The dull whump of a car door closing. Brief rhythms of this morning's metronome.

WRIT LARGE

Thursday lightly doodles atop blotting-paper sky. Vague pathways leading nowhere. Its plans have yet to fall into place. But if we seize this moment; catch it unawares, influence its direction and include our stories, then by sunset we will be there, writ large across the sky.

TALES FROM THE BONSAI TEA

Taking tiny sips

Hoping for a bonsai tea

Up popped a haiku.

EXHALE

Monday inhales silence. It dare not breathe out. Then a jogger runs by. Through the pounding in the pavement I'm certain I briefly run alongside her. But it's all just a memory of her footsteps, an echo of her passing. Monday still holds its breath.

Soon it will have to exhale.

STANDING ON SHIFTING SAND

Let us stand on shifting sand and watch the tide return

We'll see it flow between our toes and wash away concern

We'll watch the tide go out again and whisper plans once more

And with the past dragged out to sea there's hope left on the shore.