A chatter, then a chink, made me turn round. Flash of feathers, black and white, and it had gone, out of the kitchen window.
Tired travellers under a sullen sky, we pass the sheds behind the taverna. Then an earthly shooting star appears. A firefly, looking for love.
A stocky brown cow approaches the water. She sniffs it and hesitates, lifting her head up. Behind her the herd baulks and shuffles.
I’m at a music festival. I’m lying on the ground and letting the sound wash over me.
When I was ten, a man cut off a fox’s tail and used it smear blood on my face. I had been ‘blooded’: a hunting rite of passage.
Prospero in a djellaba, scattering seeds on the flint shore of England's only desert. Buckthorn, bugloss, poppy, sedum.