WEDNESDAY 5 20
By the time I’ve been
to the clinic, paths have all
been dredged with white grit.
THURSDAY 6 20
On the bank that used
to be yarn-bombed, posters of
faces and a flag.
FRIDAY 7 20
A disembodied
nylon hood, fur-edged, hanging
on a wooden post.
SATURDAY 8 20
Buds forming on the
blackthorn bush where I shelter
as the taxi comes.
SUNDAY 9 20
A narrow tree makes
a triangle, fallen on
the funeral home.
MONDAY 10 20
The first snowdrop and
crocus then lots more, all the
way along the street.
TUESDAY 11 20
A slug-shaped tube, blown
in the road, might be a sleeve,
quilted, open-mouthed.
Seventeen 