deleteduringspringclean.docx





Sunset on a computer screen
pixelated breakfast
I like the way a juicy peach looks
and the way you type goodnight, fast
it is a new time
or rather,
one that feels like no calendar could have ever seen it coming
where the morning feels not so bad
you and me, my murmuration
a dizzy fog
and this smell of springtime is just good enough.

I go out before the day makes itself known, as in, it’s a little bit dark still, and I didn’t bother getting dressed. My feet are loose and wobbling in my shoes and the birds are out.

There’s a really big Douglas Fir tree outside my house and there’s this knot of birds that’s started congregating on the branches in the early morning. If I squint, they’re actually pine cones. I show him, this new person that I like the idea of, and I zoom right in on one of them nattering away on a branch. I bid a good day in the murky morning with a dull, gloved BANG BANG BANG clap, and ALARM it sets them all off. They fly to the chapel. We will see them later. But before that, I go to my folder and begin the spring clean.

I wipe away the debris of collecting images. I like the way a juicy peach looks on my screen enough to save it. I like the idea of a recipe with root vegetables but now, don’t. I zoom in on the summer sun from back when it was warm and I ctrl + delete it because it’s not important enough. This ‘enough’ comes looming before spring. I have had enough of waking up to black outside. I have had enough of hibernating.

Sycamore? Ash? Pine? Could you tell me what trees line the road outside your house? Oak? Beach? We are looking, eyes open towards the newness, so good.
So, there are six silver birch, the kind with bark that peels in the heat – there are oak and sycamore, and the horse chestnut, and the–
                                                    what’s all this about then, hey?
deleteduringspringclean.docx #2
Dad downloaded a MatingCall.mp4. He plays it from a hidden wireless speaker in the wooden box above our front door. He wants to get the birds down to our part of the village. He says it will work.

The murmurations have begun elsewhere - up near the chapel at the top of the hill. I see them when I go out on my walk to the farm up the road and catch a throbbing in the sky – I hear it before I see it - these big outbreaths that buckle the air. I like it when they fly over, broom of dark noise, while I’m reading the tombstones of people from this palace called ‘elsewhere’ – as in, the past (the most written about place).

Also on these walks, I notice the hedgerows. Balding with jewels hidden inside of yes, litter
but first daffodils.

I was their first.
He didn’t know what to think.
She was pushing for three days.
He bought daffodil bulbs.
The garden was empty.
He planted thousands.
They come up every year.
I learned my birthday late.
I used the flowers as a clue.
I thought they were me.
There’s no good way to explain that I am born in my garden every spring.


ok, this is the last time I’ll explain the rules: ten points for 2L bottles, eight for energy drink cans, five for cigarette boxes
                I race her with the litter picker upper in my hand. It’s plastic. I see the compost bag up ahead and it is fluorescent and jovial and ready to suffocate any little animal and I am prodding at it with my picker upper – an unprecedented fifteen points.
I use my plastic arm to put the plastic bag in the plastic bag.
The murmurations knot and fly around.

It is easy to believe in magic when it arrives like that, all choral and synchronised and black.

On my way home, I scan for little silver flickers of foil
                                        for little silver flickers of that shiny thing called hope













Subscribe to mail-list for writing and publication news