first light: behind the bare poplars, two streaks of white cloud. 

an old man swinging his arms in the bus shelter
a few spots of rain

in meditation her foot scrapes across the carpet. shh. the blue-tit is whistling.

a mad fell runner comes out the the mist
her feet beat an uneven rhythm on the hillside
her breath is whistling 

a mad fell runner comes out the the mist 
her feet beat an uneven rhythm on the hillside
her breath is whistling 

Morning jog: above my ragged breathing, a woodpecker.

the hills are glowing from the inside

a peach sky

through an open gate: a pool of water, full of withered conker husks and brittle leaves clinging to a beech hedge

A compass rests on the worn round table we use as an altar. We are creating a ritual space, aligning the shrine with the cardinal points. I reach out and turn the Golden Buddha until he is sitting in the West. His gold leaf is tarnished on one knee and he is chipped at the base. In the low evening light, I am sure he is smiling. 

underneath the woodburner: grey ash, a chunk of half burned wood, and the fire-proof glove that needs replacing, with its two scorched holes, one on the palm and one on the thumb.

pre-dawn, the desk lamp throws its light into the room casting long shadows
my morning tea, the banana plant, a stack of notebooks
they lighten as the sun rises

On Pinnacle Hill, I trace the river with my finger, counting the floods.

Overheard: in a friendly tone, "I enjoy seeing fat people, they make me feel better about myself".

Naked trees. A few sheep wander into the only patch of sunlight on the hills.

My mala has been through the washing machine. 108 beads have lost their deep mahogany shine. They are a dusty wine now, each one aged and worn, and scored with accelerated age.