TUESDAY 20
Three lines of water,
parallel, run down the drive
as far as the road.
WEDNESDAY 21
The kind assistant
in the charity shop is
troubled by my cough.
THURSDAY 22
‘Private property.
Do not enter. No right of
way’ on open gates.
FRIDAY 23
Across the road a
man greets a woman who slaps
both hands on his chest.
SATURDAY 24
A flick of hair in
the elongated shadow,
my head a comma.
SUNDAY 25
I won’t eat it now,
but cinghale still makes me
think of Panicale.
MONDAY 26
Victorias and
eggs are not ripe in time for
the Plum Festival.
Seventeen 