Blue Monday. On the other side of the dark, a pheasant calls from the evening fields. I think of you for a quiet moment, somewhere under gentle lights, thinking of me too.

Friday evening. I am drinking wine and lamenting the closure of another good bookshop.

A quiet day, tending the garden and cooking. The cats and blackbirds keep me company. I am lonely in a good way.

When I can't sleep, I walk the streets of home in my mind.

Blue Sunday. The neighbour's cat is up to his tricks, scowling at birds from the garden wall. I tend the garden quietly, enjoying his reluctant companionship.

A quiet night. I can hear the wind coming over the Pennines.

Morning. I see lights over the Pennines, orange in the early dawn when half the land is silent. These are the lights of Manchester; the attics with their half-moon glasses, public houses, terraces, the farmhouses on Hartshead Moor, the sleeper train to Edinburgh.

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I like the quiet times.

RT @ElCurwen: For @TopTweetTuesday I am recommending this lovely poetry book from Melissa Davies, The Arctic Diaries, about a winter spent…

RT @PoliticsMoments: Nigel Farage is accosted by a dragon during an ITV interview on Chinese New Year (2025)

The blackbird's song is holy.

I remember having a childhood love of the sea. I still feel it sometimes, on rare occasions, when I take to the water in Cornwall or Scarborough, and feel like a child again.

I am quiet. I enjoy this way of being in the world.

Hi folks, I hope you're all keeping warm on this cold day, said Simpkin.

@RobertJTiess Hi Robert. Thank you for taking the time to reach out. I like what you did with my two previous posts - I think you're better at writing my poems than I am. I appreciate your kind words. I'll appear again one day.

I am at peace with my loneliness.

A quiet sky. Jenny Wren calls from the garden hedge, tinkling with song. I leave her to her rhapsody, her tinsmith call, and listen from the window while washing the dishes.