Brittle earth crumbles across our damp, milky paws. It clouds and carresses our faces, makes them water and waiver, and I catch your eye as it trips, and I cradle it in my gaze, and I stand it gently back down on the ground, and dust it down.
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Tuesday, 27 June 2017
A Pebble
Hop, hop, hop, hopped the pebble down the hill.
Stop he couldn’t: had he tried he’d just be hopping, still!
“Good morning little rolling stone!” A blue tit called with cheer.
“And to you and yours my friend!” squealed pebble, loud and clear.
He pondered as he tumbled round, and shattered into sand,
“I’d rather graze my pebble knees than ask a helping hand!”
Monday, 26 June 2017
A Morning Ride
She wheeled backwards to double check the door, pushing with her toes and wobbling awkwardly across the tarmac. It was locked. Good. She pushed off again and made her way down through the aisle left by parked cars, each mounted on and tipped slightly away from the pavement, as if curtsying to her procession. She passed the milkman, doing his rounds. He didn’t see her at first through the morning fog, but as he recognised her he gave a nod and a wintry smile. A final farewell, perhaps, for her last morning ride.
Thursday, 22 June 2017
Penny
You dropped a coin on the pavement. While gathering payment for your sausage roll. You looked down to check what it was. A penny. You didn’t feel any wiser. The portly stranger before you in the queue collected his steak slice and huffed toward the station. You shuffled forward to the counter. The vendor, bearded and crumbly, did a double-take, stopped, and stared at you in profound recognition. You made your order. He nodded, slightly confused. As he fetched your order he shook his head cautiously and turned back to look at you again, squinting slightly. You were checking the news on your phone. He handed you your roll and you went on your way. He decided he must have been mistaken.
I think you dropped it too soon.
Monday, 5 June 2017
A Bee
Little bee doesn’t want to work today. She wriggles groggily under her bee sheets. Her head is glued to the pillow, or, at least, weighed down with dreams, such that her little neck is too weak to lift it. Her alarm buzzes again: disdain prickles up the small of her abdomen and necessity jolts her upright. She slips on her bee slippers and gets ready for the day. “A bee gotta do what a bee gotta do”, she says to herself in the mirror, whilst brushing her proboscis. And off she pops.
Saturday, 22 April 2017
Moonbeam
The air was coarse with summer dust. No point in cleaning, we just had to wait it out. I set my book down on the pile and wandered to the kitchen to grab my drink. There was a moonbeam in my cup. It had slipped through a gap in the crumbling wall, slithered across the kitchen, and rested its toe in my tea, as if to say, “I’m here too, it’ll be alright.” I stared at the uninvited glow. And then I took another vessel, filled it up, leant against the counter, took a sip, and felt, for once, in good company.
Friday, 21 April 2017
Shopping List
Shopping list
Bread
Olives
Margerine Margarine (?)
Dictionary
Wine (red)
Artichokes
Juise Jewse Juice
Erazer Eraser
Wellies
There’s a puddle on the wall and you think, that’s unusual. But you shrug and decide, well, it’s still a puddle, isn’t it? So you shuffle over to the hallway and grab your wellies, and slip them onto your feet. And you waddle back to the living room and lie on the carpet next to the skirting, and you reach for the puddle. But it’s too far away. So you push the wooden table to the wall and lie on that instead. Now you can reach, and you splish and splash against the wall with your boots, and streams of water bounce off the wallpaper, and they don’t know where to go, because the puddle is on the wall and they think, this is unusual. So they dance around in swirls and beads up and down and in the all the directions. And you keep on splushing and sploshing and they keep on wibbling and wobbling. And the droplets giggle as they dribble and drobble and waltz aross the plaster.
Sunday, 16 April 2017
Treacle
Your hands are covered in treacle. Soft, rich treacle. You raise them to your cheeks and smother those in treacle too. Now your face is covered in treacle. Soft, rich treacle. You open your eyes and look around. It’s got light. You didn’t even notice. You’ve been standing there all night by the shore of the lake playing with treacle. The bright sky bounces around your eyeballs, making them jiggle and ache. You look down to avoid the glare. There’s a duck. And a goose. Duck gives out a little quack. Goose says “Can I have some treacle?”. The duck nods in agreement. You don’t see why not.
Thursday, 6 April 2017
A Tax on Life
On the eighth day God invented taxes.
A tax on life.
For every day of life you live you give a bit away. And you’ll live long and healthy if you don’t forget to pay.
But if you live too quickly, and forget to check your sums… well, that’s when the debt collector comes!