thirtyone

the last day of January thirtyone stones paving the path.......

 aby bird spirals
like a falling leaf
learning to fly

thirty

and waka three   koko/maturity


old familiar chipped green tiles
swept away by a rising tide
of smooth new grey

twentynine

alone on the ochre winter plains
a stark and windbent quercia
stands guardian to a circling of ragged sheep

twentyeight

 and waka day one /fukinsei/ assymetry


the perfume exhaled
by an early morning bath towel
awakens memories of a long forgotten hotel

memories of a long forgotten hotel
the perfume exhaled
by an early morning bath towel

twentyseven

Reflected in the shop window
He yanks the lead and shouts.
I close my eyes and check myself.

twentysix

Spiny artichokes
Barbaric medieval jousters
Held captive in a red bucket

twentyfive

I know, by the way she runs her tongue over her teeth, that I have lipstick on mine.

twentyfour

At the shrine, I touch my lips to the sacred topknot , small stone Buddha.

twentythree

Living smells streaming like banners
In the pungent seasalt wind,
And the cat is driven to a shapeshifting frenzy.

Her small black shadow spins,
A flying fox
A giddy goat
A gecko clinging to the floor,
A dying swan
A bullet from a gun,
All seven samurai swords.

Edit 25 Jan
Talking to fellow smallstoners confirmed my thoughts, the first three lines would have been adequate by themselves..


Living smells streaming like banners
In the pungent seasalt wind,
And the cat is driven to a shapeshifting frenzy.

And the second part needs to be something by itself, the dynamics are there, it's just a matter of working out how to link those to the movements of a cat..for now it could be

The cat spins shadows on the wall

A flying fox
A giddy goat
A gecko clinging to the floor,
A dying swan
A bullet from a gun,
All seven samurai swords.

twentytwo

The wind's blade has a jagged edge.

 And today the sun with biblical rays can only reach the elusive, unattainable, illusory  horizon, transmuting it to rolling, liquid silver.

day twenty twenty vision

And suddenly the sun breaks through, 
Transforming the miserable, grey soaked fabric of this day
Into a twinkling curtain of radiant, glistening beads.

nineteen washday

day eighteen birdspotting

 irst a fluster and a flurry  

a soft grey smudge

a fat feathered belly

a pearl of a downy head

and  then suddenly

                a veritable comet of a tail 

                blazing a trail of gorgeous orange glory across the tangling green foliage.

sweet seventeen

rain beats a steady tattoo 
on my sou' wester coloured umbrella
marking time for the watery symphony
playing in the gutters and the drains.

day sixteen

The  black bird with a yellow beak  flirting and skirting the black cat with yellow eyes, a vast schism behind the same colours

Day 15 still the storm inspires

Dirty clouds pour downwind, beaten relentlessly on while unleashing furious rain.

Day fourteen, something completely different.

n  the orange pool of a street light,enveloped in  the smell of french fries and pizza by the slice, I turned  from the evening hustle of people, cars,scooters and bikes, dogwalkers, floppy teenagers and pushchair mums and  looked at the sea out there in the dusk. Dark, surly, lowering and boiling, immense, oily and roaring, blanketed by an endless squalling  purple bruise of a sky, a terrible, untameable, alien force just feet away from our funny,busy, little lives.

thirteenth

During the storm
A hooded crow pauses for respite on a nearby roof
Giving rise to a pearly fluttering of doves.

twelfth night

Looking up, I see the Ghost Cat