SATURDAY 30 20
Eight goslings on the
bank preen in unison with
the careful adults.
SUNDAY 31 20
Inside the tight, hard
buds, disks of yellow and white,
marguerites, perhaps.
MONDAY 1 20
A young coot swims at
three ducks. They flee. Its parent
look on, do nothing.
TUESDAY 2 20
A puppy bouncing
round me is called Beryl. My
mother’s name, I say.
WEDNESDAY 3 20
The lavender not
purple yet, but green buds leave
scent on my fingers.
THURSDAY 4 20
Cooler weather, four
more tiny goslings on the pool
huddled together.
FRIDAY 5 20
On the path a hand
of leaves, shadows, twigs. I take
pictures for painting.
Seventeen 