TUESDAY 26
The backs of chairs are
Interlaced fans imprinted
on the tiled floor.
WEDNESDAY 27
Sun sets at quarter
to six on the last day of
unnatural heat.
THURSDAY 28
Wheelie bins left on
the pavement glistening wet,
drops along their lids.
FRIDAY 1
In the car park, by
the toilets, ivy alive
round a leafless tree.
SATURDAY 2
Wind blows cloud around
above a shallow hill. Crows
circling the golf course.
SUNDAY 3
Trees wintery again
pixilated by rain on
the grey windowpanes.
MONDAY 4
My bag strap sliding
off my shoulder, slipping down
my waterproof sleeve.
TUESDAY 19
A woman behind
me talks about care homes that
disappointed her.
WEDNESDAY 20
With a red-tipped spear,
they incinerate tarmac,
smoke engulfing them.
THURSDAY 21
Across the pitted
slabs, an archipelago
of moss, green, gold, brown.
FRIDAY 22
Sun flares on bonnets,
spikes at the top of fences,
shiny open leaves.
SATURDAY 23
The black-hatted man
reads a book with a man in
a black hat on it.
SUNDAY 24
A smudge of mist rubs
out colour, then a pheasant
runs across the lane.
MONDAY 25
Someone I can’t see
is shouting at motorists
not to look at him.
Seventeen 