Bailey Jones's Journal

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...

  My parents are tiny now. They have shrivelled and lost their minds; separated for more than half a century and by over two hundred m...

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...