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Approx. reading time: < 1 minute

There are no trees in Orchard Ride
Nor apples ripe at autumn tide
Save for those in cellophane
From Tesco, Waitrose or some such name.

No roots, no trunks nor grass between
No insects, bugs or things unseen
Just bricks and blocks and glass and cars
And halogen lamps that switch off stars.

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New Year’s Eve

Approx. reading time: < 1 minute

The church clock strikes midnight. Each chime counting out the old year and ringing in the new. But it’s the sounds in between the bell that are our celebration.

One…The hoot of an owl borne aloft on white wings.

Two…The unoiled gate that squeaks as it swings.

Three….The bark of a collie disturbed from his rest.

Four…The plumping of plumage in the cold blackbird’s nest.

Five…The alarm of a fox-bothered moorhen or coot

Six..Ratty incisors gnawing wind-fallen fruit.

Seven…An insomniac crow awake in the ash.

Eight…A snow-laden fir branch that snaps with a crash.

Nine…The willow tree weeping, low boughs locked in ice.

Ten…The pattering feet of a dozen chuch mice.

Eleven…The whoosh of a rocket as nine becomes ten.

Twelve…My heart beating faster as I kiss you again.