Fragments (i)

Published on January 12, 2026

Frost peppers the apple green of the cycle path with the sparkle of ice. Night has long risen when I scoot to tai-chi class. The moon, no longer full, is squashed like a potato. A fox saunters in the nature reserve below the bridge. I carry hopes for my body, ideas of health that prickle at my disabled brain.

A vertical colour photograph of a crochet work in progress. The yarn used is grey. The work is cropped by the frame. It rests on a white table alongside a badger pin, a woven pouch, and the corner of a magazine.

Later, I fall.

A vertical colour photograph of a gong fu tea set on a bamboo tea tray. Amidst the clay and glass tool is a cute hamster tea pet.

I float in fog and pain, lie on the sofa bed trapped in the physicality of my body. I watch the too bright light of Excel files on the laptop. They quiver at the edge of comprehension.

A horizontal colour photograph of a completed puzzle on a windowsill. The picture depicts various episodes and characters from the arthurian legends.

Clouds settle and a timid rain darkens the pavements. I stand in front of the heat pump, let the cool aid chill my exposed skin, blow my hair into a crown. Next to me, splintering green boxes hold the remnants of our meals, packages to be recycled, to be discarded.

A vertical colour photograph of a hamster tea pet with a mouth full of a big nut. They are on a bamboo tea tray. A green tea leaf rests atop their head. Behind them is a tea cup.

A magpie stands on the apex of the neighbour's roof. Great tits chant bright short repeated words from the branches of the whitebeam. One of them crawls into the slanted wooden box nailed to the fence. A squirrel visits. They ruffle fallen leaves to locate a long ago nut, eat it on the fence. Later, they discard the rotting bird feeders.

I lay on the sofa and watch them live, forget the pile of clothes tittering on the back of sofa. I wait. I rest. I pace.

A vertical colour photograph of four skeins of wool on a desk by a little up keyboard. One is brown, another is green, another is pink. The last one, laid open across the desk is grey. My hand, at the bottom left of the image holds the start of a handmade ball of yarn.

At the shop, I purchase garlic and tarragon, red peppers and plump tomatoes. The tills sing a beeping symphony drowned by my earplugs. In the parking lot, in search of the car, a thick drop of rain falls across my brow, slits my left eye, settles on my check.