I was inspired to do this by an article in a newspaper about a poet who writes a daily tweet (140 characters) about his morning stroll through his Yorkshire village. I've decided I'm going to try to do the same but based on my paper-round and I'll be posting it here as I don't have twitter.
It will probably just be silly little observations and metaphors and probably not worth reading but I thought it would be a nice challenge for the year ahead.


263. 21st January - 18th February

21st January.

 Morning. Trees with webbed fingers go deep-sea diving in the murk of pre-sun air, blue and marl-coloured experiments puddle round their feet.

22nd January.

 Morning. Stars string like lip piercings along the fraying hem of the night, eventually giving way to a dawn of dusty pink. Dandruff frost.

23rd January.

 Morning. Bone-white and bristling, the gnarled hand of a skeletal tree reaches out to rap at the window; some monstrous animation of nature.

24th January.

 Morning. Faintly frosty beneath a blushing sky; pink stains lounge in blobs between layers of blue like jam in a discoloured sandwich cake.

25th January.

 Morning. Startled magpie flits from perch to perch in a cacophony of wing beats; condemning its spectators to suspicion of impending sorrow.

26th January.

 Morning. Darker and more dismal than the bejewelled dawns that have glittered the past week; nothing seems to stir from its depressive state.

27th January.

 Morning. Thickly spread with damp, the dawn rears almost seamlessly out of the gloom of the night time, like a chameleon rising from sleep.

28th January.

 Morning. Birds creak and caw somewhere in the mist of trees like lost boats trying to communicate through fog. Windless and wet – dreary.

29th January.

 Morning. The sky in ribbons. Tattered-flag clouds ripple on the breeze. Above the streaky horizon birds and aeroplanes cross flight paths.

30th January.

 Morning. The grass an ashen shade of lime, the sky a diluted blue: like a corpse the day is still coloured but somehow absent, muted, cold.

31st January.

 Morning. Unchanged – the day is a permanent set-piece for some perpetually running play; each dawn the lights flare and the curtain rises.

1st February.

 Morning. Gloom and murk is suspended somewhere between the ceiling and the floor in an eddying mass of dampness and uninspiring persistence.

2nd February.

 Morning. Bird song like liquid gold ripples through the air and ten is overridden by the gruff hunting cry of the aeroplanes that prey on it.

3rd February.

 Morning. Somewhere between blue and grey, the sky is frigid with the promise of a cold snap that will spring down upon us like a mousetrap.

4th February.

 Morning. Ice-rink sky, free from blemishes and disfigurements. Nude trees, gnarled and notched by the winter. Song birds, sweet and unjaded.

5th February.

 Morning. Lighter, lucid, gold-spun. Threadbare clouds are platinum-lined where they recline languidly upon the bed of the horizon. Serenity.

6th February.

 Morning. The trees are auburn-headed where the sun stains their upper branches. The grass is dewy and silvered like the hair of an old woman.

7th February.

 Morning. The hollows and crevices between the trees are spun with greyness and murk; like gargantuan spiders’ webs they ensnare all hope.

8th February.

 Morning. A dirty blue rag of sky is grizzled with clouds and stains like an old dish cloth. The ground beneath it stoops beneath the murk.

9th February.

 Morning. Chirrups of birdsong revolve and ricochet off one another in imitation of some celestial orchestra: aria after aria of liquid music.

10th February.

 Morning. As murky as a sightless eye – the hollows between the gloom-blurred silhouettes are flooded with grey air: thick yet intangible.

11thb February.

 Morning. Snowflakes scuttle past the window in dribbles – each crystal is fine as a fleck of dandruff and hits the ground insignificantly.

12th February.

 Morning. The day seems prematurely tired as it opens its eyes and rises from sleep, as though its rest has been interrupted and fragmented.

13th February.

 Morning. The trees seem to be swimming in lakes – the quality of light is cold and clear – and the wind tickles their tresses as they bathe.

14th February.

Morning. Brightened with a warm wash of colour as though the light has been saturated into a Valentines blush. Peachy glow props up the trees.

15th February.

 Morning. The day makes a half-hearted attempt to dig the sleep from its eyes: lacklustre trees wobble against the breeze, birdsong slurs.

16th February.

 Morning. Colour bleeds into the sky from the bottom up, gradually overriding the dark of the night and birthing a dawn as blue as a glacier.

17th February.

 Morning. Arrowhead of birds disrupts the sky; like a hole which evolves into a tear, they slice the air open and fill the breech with music.

18th February.

 Morning. A lone crow whistles through the trees like a hunting spear – smooth and sharp and fast. A blackbird bursts from the shrubs below.

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