Days unfold.
People unravel.
No promises given.
The end.
Life queue...
A grey Sunday.
A drive to see my folks.
Mom talked while dad slept.
Perhaps it’s the non-poetic mornings that have more to say…
…a queue of life desperate to be heard.
The wild ordinary...
Friday.
Finn.
The wild ordinary...
'I smell feet!'
These are the gifts...
…to be seen
…to be heard
…to be loved
These are the gifts.
Give.
Receive.
Repeat.
Happy Birthday Matthew Sutcliffe!
