WEDNESDAY 22 20
Green shoots, spear sharp, in
beds in Reddings Road, under
bulbous pink blossom.
THURSDAY 23 20
Branches stitched in black
silk threads against a sky of
ochre, burnished brass.
FRIDAY 24 20
This time, I forget
to go out and see the new
moon of the New Year.
SATURDAY 25 20
In Poundland, I meet
Chris, who I once taught. Talk of
old times cheers me up.
SUNDAY 26 20
On the wrong side of
the road, I can see the school
fields through the railings.
MONDAY 27 20
In the early dark,
a shoreline of rain washes,
foamy, up the kerb.
TUESDAY 28 20
A small brown skull, not
archeological, but
a dropped potato.
