Like glue we're stuck together, he always at my side.

At least his body is, I can't speak for his mind

That's often somewhere else, eyes staring at a screen

And as the years roll by, I start to feel unseen

He sulks when I go out, to spend time with my friends

But never wants to join, I'm really at wits end

The ache of loneliness is growing so profound

And yet I'm not alone, he's always there - around

Sometimes there is a flash, of interest in me

And I catch a rare glimpse of what we used to be

Then there's a ping or some other cursed tone

And I'm again pushed aside, in favour of his phone

August was unusually warm and dry, especially for the last month of winter. There were still tomatoes growing on the plants that draped over the garden bed. Untouched by frost. Bees buzzed around the backyard, making the most of the few flowering plants, which persevered through the cooler months. I allowed myself to rest, to sit in the sunshine, gazing out at the natural world. I gave myself permission to just be.

To notice how the days were growing longer and the evenings were gradually stretching out - heralding the changing seasons. In the cold and dark of winter, I had planted many small seeds of change - burying them deep within my subconscious. Seeds of self-acceptance, compassion, creativity, bravery, self-awareness. Seeds of healing.

As August drew to a close and birds started courting, I felt them begin to stir.

Spring announced itself in dramatic fashion, with a blistering heatwave. Hot, dry wind swept across the dusty ground and the sun baked away the last few hints of moisture. Storm clouds gathered, but the longed-for rain fell elsewhere - offering no relief. I pulled out the hose, watering the garden every few days as I gazed hopefully up at the sky.

My days were spent nurturing seedlings, pulling weeds and writing. Sad stories from my childhood, love letters to a handsome French sailor that I would never send and playful rhymes that masked the inner turmoil behind my words. I walked through the bush, dwarfed by the towering trees, glad to feel small and fragile.

The heat intensified. Smoke drifted lazily through the air and for the first time in three years - I feared the coming summer. La Nina had paid a long visit, coaxing many seasons of frantic growth. Now El Nino was back and everything was tinder, just waiting for a spark. Windy days fuelled the fear, the threat of wildfire looming. Not if, but when.

Many people long for summer. I just long for it to be over.

Imagine a steed

Noble face, strong legs, white mane.

With wings - it's magic

Aquarius born,

Birthed in the year of the horse.

My spirit creature

Head up in the clouds

Mind overflowing with dreams

A loyal ally

Flighty then steady

Scared and fierce, gentle and strong

Mercurial mind

I'm sometimes a horse

Carrying folk on my back

And munching on hay

But sometimes I'm wild

Prancing on clouds, untethered

A true pegasus

It arrives in the mail - the pay check for my first novel. I knew it was coming, but my heart still races as I tear open the envelope and allow my eyes to feast on the number there. More than I had ever dared to hope for.

I've dreamed of having a home for so long. One where I can paint the walls, knock in nails to hang paintings, really settle in, without the threat of ridiculous rent rises, or sudden evictions. I'm exhausted from having to move all the time, tired of the uncertainty, of packing all my belongings into cardboard boxes and having to haul them to somewhere new. I want a garden that can grow over time. A modest house, with a timber frame - one that can last for generations. On a piece of land that is big enough to welcome any family who might wish to live there with me.

My best friend is struggling after having her baby. She feels like her body is a warzone. I want to visit her, pamper her, lift her out of the struggle. Stay with her a while as she recovers from the physical and psychological rollercoaster that is new life.

I have four brothers, each who I would like to help. A cash gift, to allow them to fulfil some of their dreams. One is living on a boat, his bank account is empty and he can't work until his visa is approved. The cash would ease some of his stress for a while.

Another is about to embark on a pilgrimage in Japan. Perhaps he will use his gift when he returns from his healing journey.

A third is managing the family farm, desperately trying to crawl out from the oppressive control of our father. Perhaps this would help him a little in that endeavour.

The fourth, just eighteen, is travelling for an undisclosed period of time. I'm sure he has a thousand ways to spend any extra money.

If the windfall is enough, I'd like to invest some. Having a guaranteed stable income for the future would be such a comfort.

But I'd also like to give back. Having prompts such as these has really helped encourage me to write, to practise my craft, to hone my skills. On days where I sit, staring at the blank screen, feeling empty, it's such a source of inspiration and comfort. I'd like to create a quarterly writing competition, with a generous prize, but also perhaps weekly competitions, with more modest prizes. Both are helpful for aspiring writers.

Lastly, I'd probably take a little holiday, possibly to the north of France. I've been learning the language and it would be a wonderful excuse to go there and practise for a little while. The beautiful thing about writing, is you can do it anywhere.

Icy spring morning

Birthed on the frosty grass

Mother's warm tongue

Nourished by fresh milk

Tiny body growing strong

Teeth cropping the grass

Then fall approaches

As the lamb grows fat and large

One day the truck comes

Heart beat, panic, fear

Violence, blood, bone, darkness

The butcher carves flesh

Family gather

The meal is on the table

Slow-cooked Sunday roast

Heavy drops start pelting from the sky, turning dust into mud, trickling into the cracks in the earth. Lightning crackles, thunder roars. The downpour is deafening on the corrugated tin roof. The gutters start to spill over, it's leaking in the kitchen. The farmer walks outside and smiles.

@ChrisSadhill

Stuffy nose. Cough. Sneeze. Spit.

At the mercy of a ginger-haired tyrant

Anxious to be liked

So I blink slowly at his yellow eyes

Signalling I'm a friend. I hope?

He smells my desperation

Is that a sneer? Am I mad?

He scratches, then he purrs

I mix his food, change his litter

His faithful butler at the door

Open. Close. In. Out.

Meow of dissatisfaction.

He kneads my lap, purring,

then scratches my leg in the dark.