I carry the papers into the shop and pull the bundles open before the shopkeeper has found the scissors. She wishes me good luck with my lottery ticket. As I leave I realise I haven’t seen The Bloke With The Dog and The Bloke With Two Dogs for a while.

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Early stroll. Lights on the old pit stack. I imagine that carpet of fallen leaves as a difficult jigsaw. A puddle the colour of printer ink. The horse and the cockerel as Vladimir and Estragon. Resting excavators.

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Aye, that’s my dad

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Looking a bit chilly.

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Early stroll. A breeze ruffles a tree’s hair. The cemetery gates are open, waiting. Puddles as mirrors. Rain’s monotonous anecdotes. Tyresplash sonatas.

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