For once, I’d woken up with a grin on my face. I actually felt like pulling the curtains open like one of those breakfast adverts but thought better of it when I caught sight of my hair.
Face twisted in tight knots, acid fizzing like Pop Rocks in his throat. He spat, blood and green hammered the cold grey slabs. Black flints sparkled, hands like windmills, a chaos of limbs.
A puddle mistaken for a pond, orange feet splashing, black beads watching. Amber set amongst branches, dark fingers slack. The new fields trembled in the ashen haze,
Crinkled skin made dents in my palm as I clambered higher. The golden beech jeered I lost my grip, a twig snapped beneath my red welly, wood burnt my leathery hands.