Who would have guessed that a small tree

could be so vicious. All day you had kicked

the new football back and forth against

the gable of the red brick terrace and

not even the promise of ice cream could

coax you away, until the Blackthorn spoilt the game.

That’s when you ran back, holding the thing

with your thumb pressed white against its skin.

You begged me for some...

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Like

the photographs of road signs charged by light,

footprints on the dashboard

or blurred trees  stooped like men picking leaves.

Or the back of my head, the garden shed

or all the landscapes from summer days when

we turned the camera on ourselves

and photographed nothing but wind.

We send thanks

and message school friends, relatives

and people w...

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Driving over the morning's misty hills

While passing a wheel of serious cyclists

An observation of pert bottoms was spotted.

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