The pain and joy as the hot drink slides past the raw spot in the back of my throat.
Wednesday 9 January 2013
It was dusk. The rear-view mirror was on fire.
Tuesday 8 January 2013
Dawn chorus: the sandpaper call of the magpie.
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
Wednesday 2 January 2013
a nest of golden drawing pins
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.