Wednesday, 7 October 2015


Slow cold boil of mist
Coils across the canal,
Too pale for pea soup,
Thin as brown Windsor,
Grey as old Sundays,
Grey as old Sundays

 After long and earnest discussion, the rooks in da hood have agreed that they mustn't grumble

Abruptly comes a chill in the late afternoon air. I realise that I saw no swallows today, and all the ones I most recently saw were flying the same way.

carrying the dew
the spider national grid
its nettle pylons

Slowly letting the day start around me; 
the kingfisher doing its rounds in the mist, 
the woodburner creaking, 
the stillness I'm happy not to disturb just yet 

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