the horizons red cuts a line, undercuts the roof of my life, a widening lateral pull. it takes courage to walk off the path.

choosing your time, a slower lullaby, a pink hued filter, a sheltered corner.

gifts from me to you, from you to me, an abrasive exchange. the best glue boils down to hunger.

the grit feels the same, the air smells the same, my feet know the rim of the circle.

lone tree on scrubland, the surface scraped back over and over nothing flowering.

the scum rises, the wave leaves, the bubbles pop.

to gaze through the window and imagine mastery of the stars.

what is it that guides the grid and bends to the wind?

1532.5 miles around a neighbourhood, a family life, glimpsing the hitchhiker at every intersection.

on the shortest day the glass is half empty.

nostalgia comes as yellow light chaperone for uncertain cloud.

apparition of a city grown in under the skin. its grey sheet now turned in with memories.

balling between the sky and the tree, amassing a crick-craw dark, in brinkmanship with the days end.

drawing without design, pleasure beyond words.

you shouldered stone, took the dull morning by surprise with your sheen and glory.

things brew in their own time.

if you vent excess bile, where does it go?

earnest in pursuit of the task, putting blind worth to the work, don't look for the tap on the shoulder, 'good enough' is our borderline. .

untether yourself and walk out to find the winter sun.

magic held in the last creases, don't give up wishing.