Thursday, 10 January 2013

The pain and joy as the hot drink slides past the raw spot in the back of my throat.

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Monday, 7 January 2013

Three cats playing. The fallen down fence panel bounces and trembles.

Sunday, 6 January 2013

The stumps of sawn-down silver birches are unblinking eyes - splodges of orange staring through the grey mist.

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Other lives: On the floor of our garden shed, someone else's golf  tee. A worn orange spike, dusted with earth and cobweb.
A spray of sawdust. The blade shivers in the wood.

Friday, 4 January 2013

The red Bò Ghàidhealach raise their heads and look at me.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

The crunch and squeal of the loppers biting into the laural branch

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

For the first time in weeks I can see the top of the hills. The grey stone beacon is white in the morning sun. The few people are flecks of ink on a page, dark spots moving along the ridge.