So this is like a book end to last night’s poem.
These are the beautiful things I have for you: the blossom has come down like a false snow to indicate the thaw, the sea defences at your favourite beach have silted the sand into a perfect scalloped edge and further up terns still lay their eggs undisturbed. This past year I have been writing in a flurry, so much I keep hiding notebooks and then discovering dozens of poems six months later. A bee flew close to me the other day and I could scent all of his pollen, a gorgeous. My bedhead lies under the window and the soft pitter patter the rain makes when I am half asleep is my homeliest place.