June 2

TUESDAY 4

Boys race down the slip
road. Buses converge at the
crossing. Taxis parked.

WEDNESDAY 5

Fading already,
the first full blown roses, peach,
yellow, red, cerise.

THURSDAY 6

I didn’t get my
hair cut, but I didn’t get
run over either.

FRIDAY 7

I count twenty-three
snails, some in agate-striped shells,
on top of damp walls.

SATURDAY 8

On the seat in the
wet bus shelter, clear liquid
pooled in a wine glass.

SUNDAY 9

Bluetits on mock delft
tiles, set diagonally
into the table.

MONDAY 10

In spite of my sky
blue waterproof, I shelter
in Acorns’ doorway.