Bailey Jones's Journal

  It's been a while since I posted on here and, even then, I was mostly posting drafts of poems, most of which have gone through sever...

Every day the goldfinch squabble around the niger seed in the metal feeder.  Flashes of red and gold tumbling through air;  not so much a ch...

 Twenty-four days to Christmas, twenty until the shortest day.  Time to light an internal flame, prepare for Christmas, burn a blend of oran...

I listen as I sit beside my mother's bed, which she thinks is a bus, though, unlike me, she is unaware of its final stop. I sit by this ...

 We - well, you mostly - created an oasis in our back garden. I helped but in a random way, buying plants here and there but you did the dig...

Herb Robert has crept in and colonised some pots near the bin without my permission. Yet I find him to be a welcome addition. Trust this inv...

Rooting through debris like a Victorian scavenger. Clearing a window on the foreshore of time. A glimpse of the past in a piece of old potte...