TUESDAY 16
A lavender spike
doesn’t come cleanly from the
bush round the tree trunk.
WEDNESDAY 17
A boy shouts, ‘Who are
you?’ at another hanging
from a lower branch.
THURSDAY 18
Desiccated leaves,
sharp lizards’ tongues, turning to
powder on the ground.
FRIDAY 19
The forecast thundery
rain is only damp enough
to make my hair curl.
SATURDAY 20
Under gathering
grey clouds, three dark brown horses
line up in a field.
SUNDAY 21
A small boy who rolls
in the shop doorway might come
from my steroid brain.
MONDAY 22
The man who moves to
sit across the bus yawns or
opens his mouth in pain.
Seventeen 