it all kicked off yesterday late afternoon and i shall remember it well, for i wrote it in the diary which sits on the kitchen table open a habit started in lockdown as keeping things entirely to oneself is usual yet conflicting with the need to identify happenings the kitchen…

oil pond mirrors the darkness the november day sun draws white against the grey this leaf lays on earth

you may already have the things you need. just look. it may be that it is small neat and shiny.

. fragility. wash the cloth to prove a point.* it is a fragile thing, hesitant in the making. never complete, it hangs by a thread.

. red field. maybe you will still stay inside a while within the boundary line four fields

. choices . where it was decided to buy the higher house in both scenarios with grit and slight gusto things come in layers and differing shades

..coast.. along the edge, the edge of season. the coast with slow limits. the glass anomaly swept the edges golden, in proportion.

.gentle. gently go forward, then gently back recreating past deeds and misdemenours you thought forgotten. gently go forward knowing we are mostly all the same, with motes not spoken of, except disorder. gently it passed behind you

.landscape. the colour comes later, in the studio. the land reclaimed, is bolder now, energy splashes. colour comes, from friends in conversation, music and sounds, and i eat them with hunger.