Still sporadic with the blogging these days - a fractious time. Another week and a bit and I'll hopefully be ensconced in a new office/studio - then we'll see what happens. But for now, it's Father's Day and verging on the Solstice, so a good time for reflection, perhaps.
Here's a little something from two years ago today.
Processing around the foot of the bed The children circle with a tray, Which displays a bespoke breakfast For the day that’s in it.
There’s toast and chicken soup, a coloured glass Of fridgedoor milk, handprinted cards. An egg-carton-spined butterfly, big as a gull, nestles Four hundred grammes of angular Swiss chocolate.
Later, flock abroad, I return to bed With coffee to crack the seal on my gift; This rainy Sunday morning - mock-mourned by The easy lament of a lone woodpigeon Who then becomes quiet.