Archive for April 2007

a piece of morning

April 25, 2007

Morning approached with a sliver of silver over the trees. They looked at it and drank, their words spoken quietly, to no one in particular, to all of them, hushed but lyrical and somehow in tune with the growing birdsong that surrounded them. They sat on damp steps and felt no cold. Between words the silence filled the gaps and the birds seemed quieter. The wine went down bitter and sweet. The occasional beer bottle popped and hissed. A few said they needed their beds, but did not move. Couples snuggled close, some for the first time.

The sliver of silver grew, pushing back the sack cloth. With the light came more birdsong and the buzz of all things waking.

Some fell asleep before the sun, some afterwards, all in the new morning, their glasses and bottles half full.


in the middle of something

April 20, 2007

She looked at him. Her brows crinkled slightly, her eyes a question. They didn’t speak. She pushed her hair back and brought her knees up under her chin, stocking feet slipping between the cushion of the couch. He saw a small hole on the left shin of her jeans. He thought it an odd place for a hole. He thought of her stocking feet getting dirty in whatever mess had gathered between the natty cushions on the sofa. He looked from where her feet disappeared at her ankles to the hole in her jeans and back again. The mug in his hands was cold. Her mug sat on the floor next to the couch, empty. For a moment his eyes slipped up to hers. They hadn’t moved. They asked still.

Noise filtered through from the rest of the flat, an awkward soundtrack.

She spoke.

He sighed, and regretted it. He put the cold mug down next to hers.

He looked at her.

Snippets II

April 19, 2007

The sun’s rays caught the dust in the gallery. It looked like mist, not light. He stepped and watched the particles’ eddies and currents swirl, affected by his movement for only a moment before taking their own course once again.


The vivid horizon stood crisp against the sky, the hills and peaks sharp, the cumuli perfect. The middle distance was hazy, wrinkled with heat and lazy dust and the odd flotsam in the air that floats indefinitely throughout summer in the country.

unmetered. not quite poetry?

April 18, 2007

Sat near Picardy
Loose ends frayed
There are sirens
A hint of the winter
just passed
She’s two benches down
I smell her food
Grilled veg
She’s just a girl
sitting outside to eat
a late lunch or early
But she has food, and
I am hungry
I can smell her food over the diesel fumes wafting over from the roundabout,
over the scent of the city around me.
The wind changes.
It’s the smell of the city again.
But I’m still hungry.

Snippets I

April 17, 2007

It was not sunset, but the ghost of one. A faint, jaundiced orange painted the clouds towards the East, the skeletons of westward trees silhouetted without shadow, shadows themselves.


The mist wept in the brightening dawn, its cold tears scattered on the moss and lichen that crusted the ruin’s stone. It was like walking in wet cling film.


The sun unleashed a light from within, filling the hills, fields and rivers until they overflowed, adding to the sun’s light their own richness, making it brighter; light that was tactile, a physical, touchable part of the surroundings, as much a medium as the air he breathed and the water running next to his feet.


April 16, 2007

Hi. Please help. I want people to comment. I want them to tell me when something’s dreadful, when it makes them laugh or smile. Or even, horribly, when it doesn’t affect them at all. A lot of what I want to achieve here depends on you, the reader, telling me what you think. Don’t be afraid. Be honest. I can take it.

The Tree (a work in progress)

April 15, 2007

James poured the boiling water into the mug with the picture of a gorilla and squeezed the teabag with the back of a small spoon. Dark clouds swirled and spread from the bag throughout the steaming water, permeating it. He stared at this progression without thought. He stirred and then let go of the spoon, reaching for the handle of the fridge.

The doorbell rang, a single chime. The noise dragged him from the routine. He paused, working out where he was and where the noise came from. It took a second. His shoulder brushed a painting on the wall of the narrow hallway as he walked to the font door. A floorboard groaned as he leaned forward to look through the window. The door creaked.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

James tried to sound irritated. He succeeded. There stood in front of him a small group of people of varying ages. They looked indignant. The foremost of them, a young lady in torn jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and one of those neon yellow cycle waistcoats, seemed to be the leader.

The waistcoat irked James.

It was 1030 on a sunny Saturday morning.

She cleared her throat and fixed her eyes to his. He held his breath. She was striking. Her face was sharp, hawk-like, offset by large, ghostly blue eyes and framed by cropped raven black hair.

“We’re here about the tree.”