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Day 8
In the Hairdresser's almost done. I put my glasses on. From the mirror my dead mother's face looks back at mine. I realise I misjudged her. That smirk, that look of knowing it all. I'm not thinking what I used to think she was thinking when I used to look at her and see that face.
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Dismantling Christmas Decorations
Crisp, curled like Dead Sea Scrolls, last year’s ivy leaves drift drily down from their temporary perch above the picture frames. I’m late: Twelfth Night was yesterday. Last year we left the LED tree from Habitat twinkling on the coffee table until May. And nothing special went wrong in twenty-twelve (no more than usual anyway.)  Day 6
On the Windowsill Crooked whittled muzzle, four-square on short legs, ears askew, it fits into my palm. Poker-burned stripes are all the clue to its identity. Wondering anew just how the zebra came to survive, I catch its puzzled wooden stare. 
Day 5
The Fridge catches its breath stops its normal wheeze and starts singing, a smooth scale rising through octaves until I think it can go no higher but it changes gear faultlessly continues up and I look at its name, ‘Beko’ and think, I read that these fridges have spontaneously combusted roasting the owners as they reach in for the milk, and I am not vegetarian nor superstitious but briefly I wonder if my fridge is haunted by a creature whose remains I’ve stored there. I dismiss the thought – it’s just a cheap fridge. The Mouse
Mouse lies face down millimetres from its last wish pale sleek belly twisted neck snapped by my cruel trap Day 3 (1)
Breakfast A crimson star, a wound in the moon-surface where my spoon breaks the thin skin; the sharp tang of blackcurrant. Now smooth on my tongue perfect porridge. © janice Windle 2013 
Day 3 (2) Gardening
Blind pale torpedo aims with vegetable tenacity towards the house. Wrenched from its secret earth the bamboo root a dragon with many legs.  Day 2:
The Photograph Bleak winter blue of hazy sky. Flat horizon far away and featureless. Low rectangle of brick and ginger tile. Nearby the wooden garage like a child’s construction: a triangle a square. The drive a rhombus of perspective lines. A conifer stands like a guardsman in a bearskin. I know this is a home with warmth inside. I’ll soften this geometry, paint reality. © Janice Windle 2013 Day 1
Beyond the window frame the sky unexpectedly waiting among fanned branches: piebald bark patched in gold; shadows shining blue. A deluded crow perched on the top twig is trying to sing that spring has come already. |
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