Sunday 25th November


Alone in a kitchen, a fridge humming in the corner, the high fizz of
electricity in halogens, wrapped in the black cocoon of night. No traffic
on the roads, only the delicate hiss of rain falling on black top, guttural
voice in gutters, floods that hide cats eyes & turn motorists into surfers.
The naked sticks of winter reveal themselves again, succulent & glistening.
The Hawthorn & the stricken Ash, weave their complex rhythms in the dark,
rehearsing invisible choreography to celebrate the sun.