day's end
the florist pours vase water
into the gutter

sound of swifts
the poet accentuates
his line-breaks

jackdaws walk the Smoke-bound tracks week's end

backlit clouds
the curl of a worm
in the blackbird's beak

rain on the wind
a squirrel leaps across
the tennis court

Snail

In the sidelight’s shadow you say 

I’m the yellow snail 

we noticed earlier

              who’d made it halfway across the pavement.

I can’t quite see the resemblance. 

If it is me, then I’m one of the motley snails 

who’ve appeared since last night’s bucketing 

  that rattled the skylight, 

as if it were hail impelling like bingo balls;

                                      like the carnival flourish 

I catch in your warmest voice.

swaying ragwort
the millstream trickles
towards the confluence