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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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.
Teeth clench cold hard air
Nature elicits reflex;
Bodies aware, minds elsewhere.
Apologies to the snails.
Our child-minds failed
To consider the consequences
Of that satisfying crunch of shell.
Our mindless destruction continues;
I know that I am hurting you
And I know that I should care
But the sea does not apologise
For disrupting grains of sand
With mirror-like accuracy
But sit stagnant in their stillness.
Radiate ripples to nowhere.
Still waters sit stagnant still.
Speaking factually, I remark
That with all this rain
A rainbow is inevitable.
He mistakes this for optimism.
He loves a better version of myself.
By the small,
The taken for granted
And the overlooked.
In the constant,
Life carries on.
Through sun-loved papery leaves,
In cracked earth; inspiration-parched.
Promise sprigs green poetry.