Vicki Feaver

We’ve abandoned the garden – all those wasted hours! Only the poppies flourish. They make a virtue of scant soil, find nourishment in stones; on stems you’d think could scarcely bear the weight their green buds fatten.

A good drying day: strong wind and sun. The trees are pruning themselves – twigs and broken branches lying at their feet. We turn to go back...

We are waking early now – filled with the urgency small animals must feel as they prepare for winter.

I had forgotten how cold it would be – like coming back after a summer of wandering lusts to an old lover.

And how beautiful – the corners of roofs floating in a white mist like pieces of wreckage;

afternoons when the sun burns through – dries the wings of dying wasps;...