squirrel

hiding behind the trunk 
but I can see his startled shadow on the fence

Sunday morning lie-in

fingers curled again a chest rising and falling
and the soft ripple of his pulse under the skin

in quality save

a tiny wizened lady browses the bargains
followed by her matching husband

tired

a heavy dull cotton-wool-stuffed feeling
and dark shadowy eyes
not even relieved by a cup of tea

journey home

a tall man outside Greg's
dances back and forth
battling an invisible foe
with his sandwich


football supporter on the tram
talks twaddle
about totalitarianism

after Zumba

I ride home in the dark
the cold air prickles deliciously on my warm skin

more snow

not flakes but tiny balls skitter and bounce along the pavement
only melting when they meet a puddle

glad to be not-old

enlivened by the sharp cold air outside
I skip down the stairs at the old people's flats
and greet the woman with the walker crossing the foyer

postman's torment

Coming down the stairwell from the seventh floor
and the smell of frying bacon floats up from the depths