Rescuing the over wintered geraniums that had not been watered: their dried petals fall like scarlet confetti and the wind blows them away. I get my hands into the flowers, gently pull away the old-dry-brown leaves and rediscover their smell: green herbs, the Mediterranean, something peppery, something lemony…

  

The second day of spring is bright and clear. Underneath the not yet budding sliver weeping pear our pulmonaria shakes in strong winds. Its micro-trumpet flowers are deep pink, Persian rose pink, and a painter’s light indigo.

The new tiles are old, old slate. Periwinkle, morning blue, midnight blue, independence blue, cool grey, blue grey. 

Three doves, inkblots against the rising sun, sit in the splayed, thin arms of the plum tree. The small white blossom is white-gold in the morning light.

the dirt coloured bones of an old narrow boat
brambles with white/pink flowers, nettles
a swan turns in the dark water

liquid meadow
the wind disturbs the grass into waves
a single tree leans towards us, twisted and spare
we don't even notice the noise of the combine harvester, fields and fields away

Candy floss - cotton balls - ink dropped into a jar - the clouds are glowing yellow-light - fat and full of rain with lavender/slate blue curls and edges. The sky is power blue - baby blue - falling, and falling away.

The floor shivers as the cars go by
Outside my window - the steady cooing of pigeons

twilight
magpie's dark feather
resting in the too long lawn

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.

my heel print pressed deep into a gob of mud on the drive

Sunday morning. The smell of spiced vinegar. A knife scraping and cutting, knocking on the bamboo chopping board. Half a pumpkin, crushed garlic, a thumb sized piece of ginger.

Asparagus fern. A mess of gorgon's hair.

the furred-green shell of three magnolia buds crack open this morning - their tight white flowers dusted with deep-pink

The first shoots of peony, a deep dark red, like sunshine through wine