4th July

morning onslaught of news the rhythm of my windscreen wipers along the bypass

hollowing out a kiwi fruit the brightness of its green

rain all afternoon a string of silver drops outside the office window

July afternoon the dazzle of headlights in a rain puddle

leaving work a jackdaw drinking from the puddle in the drive

before bed: street lights glisten on the rain-soaked roof tiles, like the moon

3rd July

carrying washing upstairs, the clouds scudding white through the skylight

working from home the way the steam swirls above the soup pan

half sunny evening the traces of slats of the blind on the ceiling

grabbing a knife for lunch a splash of silver light in the cutlery drawer

summer dusklight at eleven, the green glow of my battery charger

rinsing raspberries my fingers the colour of my mother’s memory

2nd July

Sunday morning falling sunlight through the slats in next door’s fence

Raindrops on the pink plastic clothes pegs, rocking in the breeze

First cup of tea of the morning: two bubbles circle the cup

Approaching the no speed limit sign the flick of a swallow’s tail

Bringing washing in from the rain, the squawk of young jackdaws

Patterns of light on the cat on my shoulder, I watch his breath

1st July

As the early morning ferry approaches the mainland: a sliver of light on the blue-black water

Wiping morning damp from the wing mirror, a tiny curled up spider

Heavy grey-sky morning: the brightness of the green where the sun hits the hill

Leaving early for the ferry, a patch of hillside in the mirror of the sea stops me still

A week without seeing the cats, the length of their whiskers

Long slow straggle of cars behind a caravan, the way the light moves over the hill

Beginning Again, Again

macro shot of a dandelion seeding

already turning
to seed
the dandelions
in my notebook
after this long silence

I took a break from here which turned into a little longer than expected.

And then, as happens when you take a break from blogging (and which is why in truth it’s better just to keep on going and shift position as you go) it became harder to come back again.

Somehow you wish for some grand insight, some truth you’d hauled to the surface during your time away, while in reality I just have most of the same old questions, and a reminder of the same old truth that the art of practice is simply being willing enough, and humble enough, to begin again, again.

without the words
to begin again
I watch an orange-tip
carve a passage
through the sun

6 January Haiku

a crow picking light
from yesterday’s chips,
this winter morning

soft tears again
for this unknown grief –
the silhouttes of crows

another long day
not finding the words –
blackbird song at dusk

dark green reeds
in the icegrey water
a duck ripples

across the river
in the dun coloured grasses
a white football

snowy morning –
the tails of three magpies
flicking sunlight