She come out of the sun in a silk dress (running like a watercolour in the rain)

The sky is caressing us today.  I've got to get outside and eat cake under a willow tree. Painting can wait till later (sorry painting...). This is the sultry song I'm taking with me in my head. 

Ten Years ago...my life began?

Down Deep Inside (Donna's words, not mine...)

I've been saving this up for you. I know...you can thank me later.

Put something silky on (I have)

Groin/Eyes/Throat

Just had to spill, to share,
slip it somewhere. THIS evening...this gold light...this smell kissing the air.
On my bike, skimming street corners,  rich shadows.

Grass cutters, park love.
The trees just, just tuning into their ochres and custards and orange and cherry- graceful on the precipice...

Even driving (stop/starting) in late afternoon traffic I cannot help but feel so happily owned by this slow fade season. The stars starting to make sense...somethingIcantputanyofmyfingerson.

The tip of a finger on lips. Trips to lakes. Trips to the dawn.

Im bending down on knees so grateful to this soil, the grass, my washing line, the first ripe pears I have begun to pluck from my home tree.

Happen...happen.

Sling shot / deep

You take my night over

I take my pullover
off

You spend slow time
Stretching a skein of fluid circuitry
Around the hill path of my hips

I press a kiss
Behind your ear

Soft slot.

Our beacon breaks
histories record.

The willow is happy for us.

You walked in green

I would like to take you to my Grandmothers tiled house by the sea.

It tips on the chalk cliff's edge, inching towards the sea a little by a little each year onward.

There is a ghost in residence , an unused upstairs kitchen, peeling wallpaper and a locked room, bare boards, carpet of dead butterflies.

The attic used to be my Mothers bedroom. In the deep days of her early twenties (and even before) she inked hearts and arrows onto a wall, the name of he who came before my Father.

I remember throwing up on my hair in the night, four years old. A navy blue velvet dress with a cream lace collar. Lice in the flour. Shelling peas on the brown carpet of my Grandmothers old bedroom. Losing a kitten. Collecting a hedgehog in my skirt. The ghost turning the bathroom taps on and off all night as I tried hard to sleep with squeezed eyes shut.

I want to take you here.  Think you might like it... the bleak view from the upstairs window, long over the sea, out to France on a clear day- always, always those graphite power stations screwing the sky.

Think you might like the stories my Nan would stream, the dank smell even, the locked basement

Perhaps.

Let it show (why not?)

Always for the first time

Today was the first day of this year (a round of assorted biscuits), that I longed and looked forward to putting on woolen socks and slumpy jumpers, to take on wet hill slides, spend long, darkening Sunday afternoons watching old Woody Allen films and making stews with a poor pot barley to root vegetable ratio.
I'm in Bath at the moment, getting some work done. I can't understand how it came to be, that I now have to go on holiday to get work done?
It seems to be working. I haven't left the hotel today. Even though I've wanted to so viciously, untangle my legs and scoop some hills, but I resolved to focus and focus I did. The inks been in flow, but my eyes have squeezed lemons after a sleepless night. The couple in the room adjoining mine (by an ominous door) decided to start really despising one another from ten pm till half three am...then, finally (after she flung her rings off, then proceeded to have a tearful fit trying to desperately retrieve them) they packed their things and left, but not before waking up the rest of the hotel by serenading us from below our windows with more rage and many very (very) bad words, scouring any night peace there might have initially been. 
Hence, I've been slightly slow and sleepy...heavy lidded lagoons...I'm almost ready to part with this woodsmoke day. The smell of Autumn, drifting up through my perpetually open window...the warm drizzle. A day of supple dreams, delicious half rememberings...
Hope as steep as this hill I find myself upon.