Early stroll. Birdsong greets my shadow. Deep tyre tracks in mud. The woman in the hi-vis jacket no longer walks up the hill. A dropped coat hanger’s metal question mark. The sky is hosting the reverse fixture of last night’s Darkness V Light match.

Two trees. Collage on card.

Deadwood Logging takes it out of me, The back, its twinges Drag me down. There’s spruce and oak, A sycamore, maybe cherry, Holly crown. Arwen 2021 Hit coast and land And went to town, Now I’m stacking Severed boughs and searching For the woody noun. Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Early stroll. I leave the house a minute later than I usually do. I see someone in the distance; he sees me in the distance. Trees like an audience wanting an encore. Birds scatter song-pepper on Wednesday’s plate. Morning’s slow unfolding.

A confluence of errors. Large oil on paper.

Holiday Me and you: We built the railway To Mombasa. That was for ivory And carcasses, ordinary Items of natural trade. Now you ride the line To one of The Guardian’s Top ten beaches Where craniums are ground To beautiful white sand. Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Red berries ablaze on a winter walk. Collage on card.

Spoiled Victorian vista There you are Standing on a parapet The Tweed a salmony sweep Of semi-salty shimmer The slow bell of crawling tides Brine stains on smeared panes Like the sweetest tears But still a coy aristocrat Blocking the view on her plinth Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Afternoon stroll. Passing fads.

Morning stroll. Walks and bridges. Both dividing and joining people, segregating and including.

Gullies. Collage on paper.

Fo’c’sle On a bend of The Tweed I walked a plank at low tide, Made for the slumped side Of a driftwood galleon. It’s a clamber & fumble On choppy seas, even the swell Of The Doldrums is nauseous. Up the crenelated prow I scanned for land Battened hatches Caught scurvy. M @imcmillan.bsky.social

Early stroll. A pair of dropped socks, halted mid stride. A hopping blackbird defines the path. Someone at the bus stop stares at the sky, trying to magic the bus up. Today: yesterday’s echo. An unlit car passes like a car in dark glasses.

Afternoon swim. It’s man against the fierce elements. It’s a world of peril. Alligators abound. I am Weismuller. I’ll stop there.

Late morning stroll. East is east.

Found this on the beach. Also, a small rubber ball.

Morning stroll. A wall does not make a town, though the town builds its walls.

Early stroll. The moon over the cemetery. Air is everywhere all at once. A dropped glove pointing towards Monday. That puddle holds a streetlight’s light. But what do those shards of glass and that streetlight mean?

Pole before dunes or hills. Collage on paper.

walk Yours a faint voice whipped Away by an easterly, calling The dog. We slipped on grass, Stepped up to the roar Of far tides. At the barracks Searchlights poked at low cloud, Picked out sheets of swirling mist. You wanted to head home, so All I have here is the gist. M @imcmillan.bsky.social

Here’s a thing you may not have seen before.

Weeds, Berwick fortifications. Oil on card.

Book In this book Live homunculi Their skeletons flapping To whoops of joy I wrote them for fun With their leather chaps And a barrel gun For paper-caps Pretending to shoot Not playing dead They’ll turn on me While I’m abed Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Very much the last visit to a deceased swan, Berwick Beach, large collage on paper.

Spasm Light creeps around Linton Hill Where the back road climbs And enigmatic stars incline In the field marram and scrub Interfere with the breeze And play havoc with my knees I’m thinking, that’s all, Of the dark and fear Of depression for another year Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

The last of the swan. Collage on paper.

Walls All places need an edge Where ridings meet Invaders pause Gatekeepers slam their doors Stone pediments Define specific laws Make whiskey barrels disappear You might have a cause But I’m your master From up here Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Wading Flamingo is coming on.

I wandered lonely into Stroud After walking Vales and Hills For days. The streets felt loud And bright as garage daffodils.

Swan, still dead. Collage on paper.

Lighthouse Task: look, blink, look Cyclops scan Neutral, cold, aloof Don’t come near The swell digs deep inside us Speaks of fear Death is one type of truth Walk the waves To the roundel Salt lashings Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

It’s hard to spot, but a careful observer may be able to identify the moment my crevices and pockets filled with seawater and sand. The dog, of course, stayed dry.

Depiction of a famous ballet on a Berwick beach. Oil sketch.

Contusion All my days Bleeding under the skin - A blunt tool - picture A bastard file, adze, bradawl. The old bruise easy, fall bad, Blood sluggish like lava. O yes I was hit, but you Know how it is. My worthless Words - plausible deniability Of a long-sleeved cardigan. M @imcmillan.bsky.social

Mizzle is my cloak Sand my windcast bed I’ll draw until I croak And join the kelpy dead (Although the wind blew it away and I gave up).

He climbed life’s ladder To the topmost rung Where the view was shadow And a song was sung. The gist of which I have to mention: ‘There’s only the ladder, There no extension.’

Dead swan, Berwick beach. Oil on paper.

Foreboding I’m going out foreboding Skies with heft of lead It’s all about anticipation Building shacks of dread Doors of an impending doom Windows made to scare When it’s finished I’ll move in And lay enigmas bare Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social

Unadulterated scampering.

The unexpected gift.

Morning swim. I counted me in. And I counted me out.

Mr Ralph Green, the only man to be buried and cremated in one ceremony.

Dead swan, Berwick beach. Oil on paper.

Gone Obsequious was the funeral director With the interference Of practiced sympathy. An unattended cremation Is sad, but this family is one Of Lincolnshire’s naughtiest. We’ll dig our own hole, Thank you, and bury the dead To a Dusty song, The imprecations of silence. M @imcmillan.bsky.social

Early stroll. Across the valley, scattered lights. The confident bulk of a parked van. A slice of bread near the hairdresser’s. The low hum from that metal box on the street corner. A stick like a mutating stick insect.

Berwick lighthouse. Collage.

Ash A priority seat He would have liked that The leg room perhaps Durham in drizzle Snug in his box His heft for one so frail Like he has gravity Or presence My shoulders ache A long walk to the station But a small service Berwick: To the beach Ashes to sand Sand to sea M @imcmillan.bsky.social

Early stroll. I don’t have to think about tying my bootlaces. Underground, fossils are sleeping. Rain’s note to self: wet everything, now. Puddle archipelagos. An old Christmas tree in a garden.

Berwick lighthouse. Collage.

Doggy The young one rolled and stank of badger Rooting out the corpses there The old one ate some pheasant guts Was reprimanded - didn’t care Woolly as the middle one is Scamper-running everywhere She is mine so I am biased Gold of coat and face so fair Morn @imcmillan.bsky.social