Where do all the squirrels go?

Where do all the squirrels go?
Do they sleep in beds?
Do they nest up in the trees
Where leaves protect their heads?
Do they hide near river banks
And burrow in the mud?
Do they hunker down in caves
With campfires made of wood?

I don’t know where the squirrels go
But I hope that they are well.
I hope that they feel safe and warm
Throughout this chilly spell.


I could define today
As bare toes burrowing
In a plush sun-warmed meadow.

Instead I ruminate
On uneasy encounters
With steaming land mines of manure.

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Fresh herbs in the freezer

In this fantasy, I keep fresh herbs in the freezer.
I’ve gained enough wisdom to accept that potted plants will always wither on my windowsill. It’s okay.
There is perfect satisfaction as I crumble frosted foliage between my fingers.
I savour the slow release of aroma as I watch lively greens unthaw, and then melt into a wholesome meal.

I’m always in heels. My calves are bare and smooth.
Elegant hems of feminine fabrics graze my soft knees.
My hair is long but neat. I wear make-up but not too much.
I smell of my mum’s moisturiser and I regularly wash my hands.
I catch myself smiling when I look in the mirror.
I wear loose warm knits. I give the safest hugs.

It’s sunny most days. I sit at the kitchen table and sip milky coffee.
I thumb through a newspaper; its fresh ink is tacky on my fingers.
A cryptic crossword keeps me busy until mid-morning but I’m always able to complete it.

On the days when it rains, I listen. Polite droplets whisper good morning against the glass of my streak-less windows.
There is quiet applause from the trees outside as their leaves shake off the downpour.
I always feel inspired.

In this fantasy, the spices in my cupboard are kept in matching glass jars.
I have one set of cutlery. Every utensil fits my hand precisely and is just the right weight.
I buy myself flowers. I make eggs for breakfast.
The yolks are always runny and the whites are always set.