It is a big sky, too big
Walking into the weather, leaning on it
The fire died in the night
Not much wind, not too cold, not actually raining
Fifteen squaddies, a mini-bus, a football
A car puttered slowly up the road
The muscles of this place, how a house breathes
White-coated assistants in slow-frame
Winter rain rolled over her in an empty street
Doors opened with pinging bells.
Passing soft bread rolls in paper bags to solitary customers
A pastel town breathing in short, shallow breaths
Trying to conserve its body-fat
Cold Monday morning, six o'clock, November.
A winter-emptied window-box freshly forked
She dropped her shoulders
The windows were clean, the curtains drawn
Two black labradors.
It was someone's birthday and we all brought two bottles
They will, and when they do
The smell was no worse and she felt it should be
She switched her face back on
Gethsemane
A man stops. He starts to recite a poem
A little permission is dangerous
Anger is better than despair
There's a dirty little hermit lives above the house
Love doesn't sleep and never should
Action isn't about joining
UFOs
In Tescos they are doing a special, two for the price of three
Peas, possibly onions
Our Father, etc and the Holy Ghost and Stuff
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