SATURDAY 16 20
Above the trees, Old
Joe and the hospital could
be in a forest.
SUNDAY 17 20
The squirrel tips his
tail over his head, a hood, but
blackbirds still peck him.
MONDAY 18
On spiky, shiny
foliage, coin-shaped buds grasp
the petals within.
TUESDAY 19 20
In my painting, a
statue in a photograph
from last October
WEDNESDAY 20 20
Somewhere the whine of
a mower, lawns being shorn, dry,
brown, flat and threadbare.
THURSDAY 21 20
A solemn toddler
treads a tiny patch of mud.
Her mother watches.
FRIDAY 22 20
The pointy silver
birch is a witch thrashing and
flailing in the wind.
Seventeen 