We always look out for the White Horse in the hills at Westbury and today , through the mist, the sun was on it.

  
From time to time the London Underground publishes poems which appear along with the adverts. Today we spotted this one.

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.

Imogen Cassels

It has been hard to get a photo of our Daughter’s beautiful kittens. Here is Boris.