FOR SPRING:

Deliberate tractors dutifully prune hedgerows with mechanical teeth
that rip ripe wood into shattered stumps.

(K)

HEALTH KICK:

Muesli with semi-skimmed milk,
Black tea,
a mince pie (Home made),
twelve cheese footballs,
two hand-fulls of mixed fruit & nut,
another black tea,
two jam tarts (Home made),
a small cheese & ham sandwich with salad cream,
five baby tomatoes,
sweetcorn,
four cups of black tea,
four mince pies (Home made),
a slice of chocolate log,
a cheese & ham sandwich with coleslaw & four baby tomatoes,
a glass of water.

(K)

DOG ATE PIGS IN BLANKETS:

A fragile bubble of calm, low hum of traffic, life & all it’s
infections creeps back into the soundscape. Blissed-out, hold
the schedule, still the voice. Gentle cocoon of grey light
come wrap around, whispers quietly respectful of sleepers dreaming
beneath duvets. House moves silently, doors knocked with considerate
knuckles, conversations without pressure exchanged in murmurs.
An encroachment of frustrated tension winds up preparing to explode.

‘The Days of Pearly Spencer’

(K)

BETWEEN BEFORE & AFTER:

Walking in a perfect rain, waterproofs, boots & scarves – silence.
Carless smells of cooking, frantic kitchen dancing. Sleeves rolled,
steam rising, escapes open windows ringed in fairy lights.
Birds crowd fat-ball cages swinging from the branches of naked trees.
Rivers high, fields clag underfoot oozing, expose the sodden earth.
Leaf mould, Oak bark, summer’s gift to new life, dark smells, rich
as coffee. The wind drops as the world stops chasing it’s tail.

(K)

WHAT GOES IN:

Four hours sleep feels like the full six as the eyes let in
a crisp light. It crosses the fields at the speed of shadows,
long & thin – no darkness here between the ears, you get out what
you put in.
Brenda Lee sings ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’, clouds erupt,
cracked as nuts, cascading platinum gold. Wind races ragged through
the Trees that dance in sinuous, erotic hallelujahs, laughing.

Listening to Yaporigami – ‘Eye/Hand’.

(K)

CABRIOLET:

The lid is lifted off the world, the sky turns blue, infinite.
Park the car on the roof, walk around, released from artificial time.
No pressure, expelling dirty air, breathing in silence.
The streets below are full of space, the rhythm of quiet potential,
undemanding. Long shadows cast by a warm sun, knuckles released
from pockets, unfurl, wave, from one to another across
the market square. A school band plays carols underscoring
stall holders stacking vibrant flowers, holly, mistletoe,
fruits & pies & steaming urns gleam, ready to revive
the weary passengers of a tiny ball of busy dirt.

(K)

HEY HEY MOMMA, SAID THE WAY YOU MOVE:

Walking, shopping, hunting, dodging rain & cold from Brick Lane
to Mayfair. Good times swerving moods, trying to keep everyone
happy under an electric sky of cross-cross lights. Heavy clouds
of seasonal perfumes guide us along back streets, following routes
we used to walk twenty years ago. Starwars at the Curzon, big screen
luxury. Lay back, sink into velvet pillows drift off & escape the
world & all it’s wonders knocking at the door. Black cab noodles
after the proper eating time. This is uptown living, making it up
as we go. The trains don’t run on time if they run at all,
terminating long before our stop. The taxi driver asks us where
we’ve been,

“I hate London!”, announces, somewhat heartless for the time of
year. Jams his smelly car into gear & plays Led Zeppelins greatest
hits all the way home.

(K)

SINGING CAMERA:

A bright gold sunlight rises above the horizon, warming us,
casting long shadows. The relentless ‘pace-of-things’ begins
making preparations to step back & let us breath. The season
to be jolly offers the briefest of moments to stop & hear the
message of a quiet voice talking to us, carried on the wind.

(K)

SHE’S GOT A LOT ON HER MIND:

Woman in a red dress careers towards me brandishing shopping bags,
teetering on flustered heels. A seasonally unpractised Bambi finds
herself suddenly between aisles of toilet rolls, dazzled by the
wealth of options offered. Oblivious to everyone, crabbing sideways
along up the aisle, fingers pressed to festive lips she ponders the
kiss of promised softness. I buy, noodles, tuna & an Elvis wig before
escaping to the sanctuary of a car parked up on the roof.
From here the world & all it’s children glow, look good enough for
reason to join in. Everything illuminated in the chiming light
of a winter sun.

(K)

RETURN OF TINY DRUMMER:

4am, a constant four pattern groove. In truth, though he may think
he’s something, the guy has a crap sense of timing. Everything’s
just ever so slightly off & that’s what gets me, keeps me awake,
trying to pull every beat into place. I sit on the edge of the bed,
head in hands, pondering self-pity, noticing how quiet it is,
how good that feels. Living in the moment, not future or past,
the silence is sweet. A fleeting second of genius, put my pillow
up the other end of the bed – “ah – bliss!”.
Dreamed I made a wrong turn & stumbled into a private reception
for the Dali Lama. Felt like an impostor, then he looks over at me
& winks.

(K)