Prompts, Sunday

The simplicity of it

There is a sign of night, clouds

Your body is too sharp

The sea sings because it is moving

A tin-roofed shack, no phone

We smoke a silent cigarette, look at the rain

The grass needs cutting

Pickard woke me

Dogs

Waiting for morning, for breakfast

Don’t give it a thought

The A-Z of useless platitudes

Madame Curie

If, dear

He left her photographs of sad caravans

The Angry Priest

The road to your place, they are digging it up

Attic

A glass door flashing

Let’s face it. Or not

When I was a child, I imagined.

One brick, then a second, then three, four

Dog in a bath

Back to my high, empty place

My father was claustrophobic