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Early stroll. The breeze throws its weightlessness about. I climb an alp of fallen leaves. A single traffic cone like a lonely yellow lighthouse. The fragile beauty of that broken wooden fork on the pavement. A shining red car parked next to a shining blue car.

Dead cow, Roxburgh Mains, slightly bloated. Oil on paper.

Charity Not having an eye For a find But still A stone cupmat Edwin Muir’s Scottish Journey A charitable laundromat Rotates its tea spoons Chipped decanters Lime cruet sets Pennants I’m enthralled Almost beaten By a smell of death The frigid bonechewer’s breath M @IMcMillan

Early stroll. A pile of fallen leaves at my back door. A puddle in the shape of a capital P for puddle. The made-to-measure sky. Dropped rubber band as hieroglyph. Improvised breeze-music.

Dead cow found on Roxburgh verge. Mixed media.

Dog A dog’s life Or a generation Is about four times faster It’s a time slip Or a disaster Each dog day Lasts four days They say the working Is likely over Before mine has begun For Rover A dog’s dinner Is quicker When time is licked By the licker Morn @IMcMillan

Early stroll. I eat an apple I picked weeks ago in Cleethorpes. The melancholy rustling of piles of leaves. Distant stars tell me things about deep time. That shrouded car. My shoe lands in an ancient footprint in concrete.

Houses up The Bowmont Valley. Oil on paper.

Gazing The stoneclearers Made fractal arrangements On quilted Pennines Those rumpled shadows Slabbed like sentinels In the low sun From the train Distance is secondary A rotating stage of vales To be late is a construct The moors wait With their stolid bleakness M @IMcMillan

Early stroll. The breeze agitates and irritates the trees. I briefly thought that cat on that fencepost was an owl. Someone stares from the bus window, looking astonished to be sitting there. A narrative of security lights as I walk. Leaves overcrowd a puddle.

Up the Bowmont Valley. Oil on paper.

Tall tales Write the rain With new words The skrirl of greets Scoured & cowered Dumb hills Trees bonsai-ed to stalks Ports of perfect rotundity Kelp stores held down By dense nets Curlews mock the wind Echo the stour Empty as curse These words such bruck Morn @IMcMillan

Trees, low sun. Oil on canvas.

Belated The late train Is not a dead train The last train From Wigan has gone That was my train Not just any train This train Is a lumbering train Sidling through rain By the M6 Such a late train Why choose this train When it’s up to its old tricks? Morn @IMcMillan

As old as prophets, fierce as brigands, funny as clowns, the mighty Congos.

Oh my. Excited. Heading down west coast to Manchester to see Congos live with son.

Forest waiting for autumn. Oil on canvas.

Ruin Cumulatively coincidental Each step forward Crossing cobbled drains Lanky alpine lawns To the vennel There, by the tumescent Trace of a sink-hole A gangly lilac off-kilter Venue of ruin My head always steers this way Subject to formative temptation Morn @IMcMillan

Skies seen from Westray to Kirkwall boat. Sketches.

Time Here is the ground. Stomp - it makes a dull thud, The size of our world. The ground is shifting, Imperceptible geology. They think it can be stilled. Or go back to how it was, Like they are remembering A dream. Stand still. Soon you will be gone. Morn @IMcMillan