We move into the spring bank holiday with sunshine. The smell of barbecue drifts garden to garden. I hang the washing out even though I know that my shirts will take on the smell of grilled chicken, beef burgers, smoke. A child is playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on a violin. Pushing its weave into my back our rattan chair creaks.

the painted lady
on my arm flexes its wings
strawberries and cream

Paul Conneally