February 2

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.