Wednesday, 16 November 2011
What I put in my pocket on my way to the village
A poppy without a stem;
a torn fragment from a note someone had written on the back of a dental hygiene report;
one of fifty or so flowers that had fallen from a fuchsia bush;
a brass screw that I found near a house which was sold in January, whose owners have yet to move in and that's filled every week day with workmen;
an unravelling cord;
and a leaf with a hole in the shape of itself.