Array of sunshine / erases shadow, birdsong. / The morning dew weeps.

Dusty tag chi shoes / a re-birth, the Great Tao makes / vacuum cleaner noise.

Brighton viaduct / light like a grey chrysalis / emerging morning.

Helicopter drone. / Look up, the CCTV / hides pigeon feathers.

Dawn hair, Sunset face, / a suit made of spiderwebs. / Playground voices laugh.

A delivery / for the expectant mother. / Future wrapped in string.

Fresh fingers perish, / Breath frozen mid-air like strings / in a silent harp.

Again, i'm choking. / This urban, smoking beast, grey, / hungry, feasts on me.

Something is coming. / Is it tea or destiny / that hides in the East?

Cold, mounting rubbish. / Leftovers of hidden lives / left out in the rain.

Devoid of Sunlight. / Separated from its root, / the flower crumbled.

Winter yellow leaves, / death lost amid falling rain. / Orange camper van.

Where is the twist in / this history of wisdom? / With bated wishes.

Mirrored reflection / from inside the train, outside / dappled reflection.

Scattered black boxes, / Winter storm stole their content. / Remnants of green thoughts.

Supernova sea / at the bottom of the road / where nobody goes.

Fallen pine needles / scattering the pathway home. / No sign of tinsel.

Snow falls out like ash. / An uninspired flash of light, / a war of stale mates.

Eyes flicker like flames, / dancing between pale grey stones. / Snowfall sounds like rain.

Inside the still train / nothing stirs except ringtones. / The hush of white noise.

Eyes open; snow falls. / White and awake, the wide flakes / melt away like sleep.

Shadows seem so real. / Old lady steps into one / as her skin shivers.

Industrial parks, / new builds and caravan homes. / Strange neighbours indeed.

A baby laughing / contains more reality / than Radio 4.

Swallows gathering. / somewhere a baby cries out / while the sky turns peached.

My mist, touch of breath / resting on my thoughts subdued. / Pale lamp casts no hues.

Asphalt, vinegar. / Burning smells sell tall stories / to ears half asleep.

{ dew like shadow lies / on the haven's waterfall / summer's strange disguise }

Improper advice / whistles the lap of a wave / in the waiting wood.

The blackbird disturbed / by the creep of the tree bud / her songs left behind.

Sweet evening darkness / blinding imagination. / Memories of rain.

The blue tit flutters / through an ocean of window / I try to look back.

All the world's a stage; / Opera songs search the street, / browsing for pennies.

Bright sea mist cobwebs / carry the call of the fog / somewhere out of sight.

Snow white metal light. / Pigeons peck in the shadows / beneath people's feet.

Rust-plated pylons / thread their dry conversations / 'tween the highland pines.

Deserted playground, / the silhouette of birdsong / playing on the swings.

Liquid meteors / bounce from huddled plastic skin. / British holiday.

Withering bluebells / haunt the air with their last song. / Summer arriving.

Walking past the church, / the idling hatchback makes a sound / like summer birdsong.

Unhappy child cries. / Sun shines on a glist'ning sea / but no iPhone here.

Salad spinner war! / Let loose the lettuce alarm / and dress for action.

That warm morning skin, / hidden by the gaps of clouds, / leaves behind shivers.

Squirrel-coloured air. / The sound of spokes approaches / the end of the tail.

Behind one window / A lifetime of furniture / awaits rejection.

Blue and white surfboard / traverses the waveless road. / Needs to be carried.

Drizzle in July. / Seeing the wall of flowers / I forget their name.

Tall, grey, pinstriped suit / strides beside the tombstone line. / Plastic Asda bag.

Low hanging sunlight. / Orange confectionary / sparkles back at me.

Waiting for the lights, / he wears a pair of rucksacks / and a last embrace.

One flip-flop missing, / She treads between the two tracks / left by a monster.

I am distracted. / Flickering against the blind, / the pigeon's shadow.

Travel-dashed landscape. / The clouds, floating like pollen / , seem set in stone.

The blue light clashes / With the purple chocolate box / An emergency.

Rusty fox shadow / Sauntering past on tip-toes / Between the street lamps.

On the Autumn breeze / A flurry of golden leaves / Above the koi pond.

Pink clouds to the North / Sink their wispy fangs into / Frostbitten houses.

Sirens in the air / Race like butterflies, but where / Wings beat, hearts flutter.

The Sun blossoming / over Saturday morning / promise of fresh smiles.

Deep pan pizza smell / Brings mem'ries from my childhood / For five ninety-nine.

A bright flash, no snow / covering the falling leaves / ahead of bonfires.

The red leaves vanished / Leaving skeletal branches / A sky of pigeons.

Crisp, crunchy yellows / lie about the autumn air / filled with fireworks.

His reputation / Preceding nothing but leaves / Became a forest.

November lightning. / The shadows cast on my wall / Earn a thunderclap.

Imagining what / the sounds of fireworks look like / while my son sleeps on.

Pale, grey light, awake, / Breathing twice the speed of mine / Lies upon my chest.

Grey winter window / Sitting over Saint Peter's / Shimmers from inside.

My meter ruler / for measuring happiness / seems to be broken.

An empty fountain / where the summer water was / the leaves have gathered.

A ladybird's husk / Brushed aside by winter's dusk / Sitting on my sill.

Twin chinese lanterns / Lighting up each others way / This black winter's sky.

Caught on a cobweb / One red leaf catches my breath / Forgetting the cold.

Catching my pale breath / A red leaf swings on the air / Caught in a cobweb.

In the cold evening / An old couple holding hands / Leave behind grey breaths.

Sunday in winter / Listening to Summertime / Billie Holliday.

Snow clouds out to sea / A boiled egg in my pocket / Keeping one hand warm.

Dark clothes in winter / Like I have something to hide. / Orange clementine.

Stepping over flakes, / Wrinkled, frosted maple leaves / On my Christmas cake.

Electronic chimes / in a miniature cosmos / dreaming in vinyl.

Lazy sky lanterns / Dotting the forgetful haze / One for each new year.

In his red blanket / Looking like Superman's cape / He is so peaceful.

Watching the snow fall / Into the pond's reflections / Black and white magpies.

January mist / A rare opportunity / To remain obscure.

Crumpled in the rain / Just a pair of bird feathers / Between me and home.

Two red umbrellas / Carried by distant strangers / On this grey morning.

A single grey sky / Casts eyes over fields of rooves / With their whitewashed skins.

Watching Molotovs / Fly across Egyptian screens / Without prejudice.

The cold marble floor / And warmth of the dying fire / While the Sun comes up.

Black crow, wet green grass / Looking on as I drive past / With nothing to say.

Pale blue evening sky. / The silence of the church bell / Eclipses the moon.

Bleak Sunday morning / Brushing my teeth post-breakfast / My son stares at me.

Now the Sun is out / His orange jumper argues / With the red bus seats.

Evening mosquito / Resting in my reflection / Staring back at me.

Leftover branches / Watching the A-twenty-three / Behind a brick wall.

Slow-motion raindrops / Blossom turning into Spring / For a brief moment.

Fresh, moonlit blossom / A cat on sentry duty / Paces up and down.

Out of the sky blue / A dead pair of pigeon wings / Stops me in my tracks.

Your eyelids close first / Then, dropping your green dummy, / You fall fast asleep.

My eyes catch the space / Where a single blossom fell / A moment ago.

Preparing themselves / By the field of circus bones / An old, stopped woman.

A trail of blood specks / scatters the sunlit pavement / from the night before.

Summer Chestnut leaves / hiding the empty spindles / where the blossoms were.

In the evening light / a moth wanders through the flowers / on my windowsill.

Nothing is as light / as the weight of my son's head / in an empty room.

Hopping past puddles / holding a bottomless sky / after heavy rain.

Umbrella streaks / Fading photos line the streets / Where the colours run.

Flutes and whistles play / the calls of distant seagulls / on these hot, grey days.

Unexpected steam / and stories of thunderstorms / fill up my journey.

Up above my head / even the leaves have two sides / as the Sun goes down.

No more visitors / passing by the buses' graves / with plastic horses.

The old man lies down / At the end of a long road / Blue ambulance lights

For a few moments / the tick tock of the cat's purr / becomes the whole world.

Across the sand dunes / the hail-struck grass plays havoc / with my sun-burnt feet.

In August showers / an unseen woodpecker cries / as the petals fall.

On the seagulls' cries / Purple, pink and yellow skies / Over Brighton Pride.

The man shuts his eyes / while the morning crowd arrives / beside closed shutters.

Yellow flourescents / pick out the trails of grey smoke / against evening clouds.

A single knife slice / lets me see inside the skin / of today's green beans.

The sycamore rain / settles on the garden grass / with the sound of bells.

The cry of a door / and the sound of my footsteps / litter the hallway.

The charity box / sits in the rain, spilling over / with good intentions.

Warped, unknown vinyl / and a worn out tennis shoe / waiting for the bus.

The old school playground / brings back childhood memories / that I never had.

Bright blue Autumn dawn / masks the charcoal rising up / from the warm-through tar.

Windows on West Hill / Picked out in the morning chill / where the clouds collide.

The lip of the sky / hurries peach with the streetlamps / buried beneath it.

An empty moment / where the cars stop appearing / among the Autumn.

Everyone walks past / Three huge piles of fallen leaves / Found in Preston Park.

Free of summer breeze / the last remaining rosehips / shiver to themselves.

Such extinguished guests / The aphids on my chillies / Remind me of home.

Low Sun, Preston Park / Soaking up the morning dew / Yesterday's headlines.

On Sunday morning / the sounds of tennis ring out / across the graveyard.

No more wind and rain / Just the sound of falling leaves / and the rush of cars.

The crow takes a rest / by an empty bowling green / waiting to defrost.

The Autumn harvest / leaves its traces on the ground. / Empty Apple tree.

When the oak tree fell / all the years left behind were / finally revealed.

Just outside the school / the back of the ambulance / hangs open, waiting.

A million leaves / caught in the frozen hedgerow / after time has stopped.

A magpie cackles / at the conkers left behind / by the hidden swings.

Hand-written notes and / flowers tethered to the fence / by the warning sign.

The tree branches sway / and I feel like I'm walking / on concrete water.

The brown sugar sits, / melting into the heart of / the cappuccino.

The scattered berries / lying amongst the darkness / beyond the doorway.

Steam and rainbow drops / hanging off the wooden bench / in the light of day.

Lightning and woodsmoke / on the way to the bus stop / littered with raindrops.

A winter solstice / on the top deck of the bus / eating ice cream.

Without spectacles / the misted-over mirror / still reflects badly.

Polar bear stories / and a grade seven on top / Yesterday's haircut.

The man looks away / While his dog pretends not to / Crap on a grave.

Every now and then / the red light blinks into view / where the cyclist was.

Headphones and joggers / with a manor house backdrop / buzz around my head.

Strangers drinking tea. / Overheard conversations / fill up with meaning.

Washed-out graffiti / The white paint tries to wipe out / someone's memories.

Apricot sunset / slashed with a single plane trail / carries on fading.