Fifteenth of the month

Not a quadruplicate of babies' skulls

November coloured

eyes and mouths rehearsing Christmas carols

e’en as they lay, battered in the gutter

but an egg carton, fog-sodden and forlorn

Loaves not fishes

Late-woken from a dream re-formed

from the dough of Thursday’s memories

to red dot flashing of bread machine

and a butter yellow sky.

Low tricks by the sun

Long slender legs extend my arrival in a kitchen where

crumbs are boulders, windows blind with grime

and I wish, not that I was less a slut at housework

but had been more so, while my legs were still that long.

On my way to buy a morning paper #50

Close to the ground:
not an exotic creamy toffee crunch dessert
but once-white, now-dead hydrangeas.

Hamnavoe in Hamnavoe

The rising sun, at half past six
still low enough
to be blotted out
by the ferry passing my pier

From behind closed curtains in Inverness

Seagull's single bark of surprise
followed by cruel laughter
like he'd discovered his best mate
shagging the barmaid.
The one they'd both agreed last night
was minging.

From my office window

Several dozen starlings suddenly alight
for a frenzied twenty seconds' gorge
on scarlet rowan berries.

Satisfaction

Turning the tumble of too-fleeting words in my head
to eight hundred words on the screen -
and all before breakfast -
means the rest of the day should be good.

stepped out

Filigree satellites
planted overnight
on our front lawn.
Listening to our every conversation?

Misheard

Not a trundling of dozens of wheelie-bins, on cobbles
but thunder from a pale grey sky.