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Crows out and about on brown fields: laughing, betting with each other over who flaps best.

Pylons cutting up the sky. It'll be ready to fold and glue in a moment.

I've lit the traffic lights; i've lit the buses;i've lit the chip shop and the station sign.The street is ready.

Pylons among trees agree on many things.

Old paper stuck at the bottom of fences for long enough tries to imitate leaves.

Empty offices uncertain if they're waiting or abandoned

The bus: a boat, the night ferry on the Euston Road, full of thought,hope,desire in the going along of it.

The bungalows are glad they aren't taller and agree that things are better that way. Yes.

Ruffled hair on the train,ruffled hairs,millions of rufflings,ruffle ruffle ruffle.That's us.

No ends. No beginnings. Only change.

Lights across streets and railway lines calling out to each other in the dark.

Shreds of polythene bags in lastdaysofwinter branches, a cat takes no notice.

About ten wheelie bins waiting for the bus

Quite a few bumble bees have reckoned it's safe to come out. I told them they missed the snow. They said, we know, we know, we know.