Red kites in the sunset

Old ladies gravitate to me - tell me of their widowhood & arthritic shoulders

The bookseller in birmingham provides me with a free magazine & a tempting offer & I accept the free magazine full of reviews of literature & books & I sit reading it & imagining one day i'll create something like that; something that people admire, something filled with beauty

I hit london at rush hour & immediately feel utterly lost in the fight, the haste, - my head aches within minutes - I forgot I was awake at 5am - I long for the solace of the woman I love, the companionship even when she dislikes me is my treasure & my faith; but she is a world away in a place where the hills are painted ladies of grace, patchwork Annies

I watch a woman on the bus drawing in a sketch book; blue & green coloured patterns

Funny then that a drunk old duffer with grey dreads should stumble on the kerb edge and flail forward smacking his lip on the concrete mashed up, & when I offer him a tissue to clean it he starts rail & rant & leaves a glance hanging in the air between us - one more try with the tissue & he shrugs it off & starts to shout at my departing figure shrinking away in the lamplight