Tightness in the chest.
One thing, one sentence, once a day.
Morning light behind the curtains.
The touch of the dog’s cold wet nose.
Wet shrivelled skin.
Oil stain in the parking bay.
Dust on the dashboard.
Peeling skin after healing.
The trickle of the water in the brook.
The weight and warmth of the dog as it leans on me.
A chip off the edge of the dinner plate.
The shadows the kitchen light throws.
Keys hanging awkwardly off the hook.
The twinge of a pulled muscle.
Sticky hands on the steering wheel.
The still before the day begins.
