Five cygnets on the water.
One thing, one sentence, once a day.
An unused charging cable lying across the floor.
Dried egg down the side of the bin.
A lone clothes peg on the line.
A half drunk pint.
Peeling paint on an old garden table.
The dog’s ear lying across my leg.
The fresh smell of dawn.
The crude harshness of overhead lights.
Old initials carved into the bark of a tree.
Fine misty rain in the morning.
The breeze through the open door.
Rough ground felt through thin soled shoes.
Peeling skin on my arm.
Feathery scuff marks on the old wooden floor.
