A few yellow-white flowers, amidst the dark green curls of tea

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

It was dusk. The rear-view mirror was on fire.

Dawn chorus: the sandpaper call of the magpie.

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

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

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.

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

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

a nest of golden drawing pins

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.

Winter shrub

bundles of smoky topaz twigs and a few small leaves heavy with rain

Post-vet-visit: I wash the cat-piss off my arms, and keep talking to him, as he slinks out the door.

Chickweed grows through the discarded bricks: ochre, burnt umber, cracked and crumbling. They glow in the dusk.

A magpie drags a crushed up, squashed up, squirrel carcass across the tarmac, leaving a fresh-blood red smear. A green woodpecker flies up from the side of the road.

I comb the grass looking for the missing bolt from the lawn-mower. Each wet blade catches the light, and the rake chinks against mud-clothed stones. 

Picking plump wild strawberries in the rain

The crowd rushes into the road to meet the torchbearer.

A clutch of daisies in the woods. The bluebells are already wilting.

Woodpecker: a smudge of green against a darker-green hedge

A thin band of light between the sea and the grey sky. The dawn is softly golden.

The bands of colour on the cliff fade from ochre to white, sandstone to chalk. I think of Rothko, sideways.

All lit up like summer. A  few Leicester Longwool. Ivory dreadlocks in a fern-green field. 

Roshi (we still call him a kitten, even though he is pretty much fully grown) burrows into the ripped, silver, wrapping paper on the bed.

Lavender sky and the buildings fade to shades of grey.

the frost like mottled mould - white on the dark winter green lawns

The golden Buddha glows. Outside the occasional car rushes past.

The grid like lights of the petrol-station forecourt. Strips of neon and fluorescence. The scent of chemicals. 

In Argos, I apologise for not knowing where to go. The sales assistant runs through her spiel, they can protect my new toaster for three years...