We always look out for the White Horse in the hills at Westbury and today , through the mist, the sun was on it.
The boy who sits on bins becomes
a chough, admires the sight of his red beak
Against the wall
He goes nicking coins
Across the city, flies back and roosts
In the chimney stack above our house.
At dawn he climbs down and walks to school
With rooftop-torn jeans and fingerless gloves
The colour of smoke on a winter morning
In his pockets: a half pack of matches,
a lighter, a week’s worth of razor blades.
It has been hard to get a photo of our Daughter’s beautiful kittens. Here is Boris.