Normal exhausted out of time
A splurge on the back page Or the back of a dismissive hand
Tapestries gracing ancestral estates Welcome mats trimming our public park gates
An eggless raspberry bellied bake Twitcher fuel – Kitchen-side of the glass
The rubble bank is exactly that: a peculiar, linear, broken brick and excavated, relocated dirt mound at the top of our garden.
Christmas Eve trains track Figures gifting plastic poems Lines of Lego love.
The clocks had already circled backwards when I took shelter in the passageway beside the second hand book shop.
Pumpkats – Rattertats! Hatterchats? Soupcats!
In the pursuit of pretty, there are two kinds of gardener who wilfully apportion several weekend evening hours to hosing down their lawn, in a heavy storm, on the darker side of dusk.
A lone reflection for sorrow A life-long mate brings mirth Fledgling foretells a funeral Charming broods a live birth