Ice-specked brown on dull grey doesn’t sound like ice cream in a dish, but it’s more accurate than 5’ 8” and slim.


His tabby ears

when the kettle boiled in the house

when dry grass chatted in the wind

when birds flew beyond paw and leap

when a creature stretched in its leaves

still when eyelids nodded
then closed.


Somewhere beneath the sheaves of  blank or written upon yellow and white paper, the gadgets and gizmos, the higgledy-piggledy books and the clothes all tumbled together, I imagine there is wood thirsty for wax and a carpet gasping for life to be sucked out of it.

On this the Feast of the Epiphany, her rational is to point to the starry sky and mutter about gifts being found in a mucky stable.


Recipe for…?

A misshaped globe
pale-skinned and pock-marked

tendril roots clinging
as earth tumbles out –

remnant of a former sphere
birth place, nest.

Sharp knife peels to the flesh,
cubes with ease the white heart.

Hand tosses heart to hot metal
to onion sweated down –

a carpet for the fallen
in the cauldron of stock.

Notes of sour apple and thyme
herald the readiness of lunch.


Through trees and lampposts
the mid-day sun paints a keyboard
on the path.

When a foot falls,
white keys echo the silence of black.

But in the heart,
the light, the low winter light,
strikes up the prelude to spring.


She threw back her head as she laughed at her own words, he looked down at the ground. They let go hands when they turned off the pavement and into the cafe. Their specs steamed up in the ease of warm air.

They found a table and sat down. Fog looked into fog, watching for it to lift. Only then did talking resume.

His took far longer to clear than hers.