"Which Way? (Entry 370)

The long way round. 

Straight down past two junctions. 

Left at the shop. 

Straight onto the traffic lights. 

Left again, count eleven houses on your left. 

You're there in twenty minutes. 

The short cut. 

Through the dark alley,

(Dodging stinky bins from the pub and Billiard hall. 

Past grunting yelling drunks,

Sleeping and vomiting in their own urine soaked patch,

As wet sewer rats and amber eyed snarling scrawny foxes

Scavenge for treats in those overflowing rubbish skips.)

Out onto the street, 

Count five houses on the right,

And you've made it to your destination in five minutes. 

I think I'll go the long way round!

"Cat's Night Patrol" (Entry 302)

Darkness drapes her sharp shoulders,
only to be lifted by spotlit circles from overhead lamps.
These pavements, her stage.
The cold seeps through cushioned pads
hardened by time and life.
She take in her circuit,
her territory,
to notice new invading sights and
telling scents of unknown beings,
friend or foe.

The wind lifts,
sending a torrent of leaves to
tear from the branches and
swoop, as seagulls, around her.
With the gust, a cry is carried.
She flinches to a pause.
To hold as still as unmossed stone,
as silent and unmoved as
that lonely naked rock.
Eyes widen,
pinpointing any scuttle or scamper.
Ears rotate,
senses performing better than
any radar.

All is fine.
All is quiet.
As it should be.
Satisfied, she turns,
jumps the wooden fence
at the spot she knows
is easiest.
Across damp lawn to
enter through her own private door.

She shakes the night from her fur to
curl up,
content in the knowledge that
her solitary streets stay safe.

"Hidden from Sight" (Entry 250)

They kept it locked, cased in special place,
within the museum vaults.
For in its hideousness, it was still precious,
even with all its faults.
Kept within a box behind glass and metal,
so no-one could peer to find
and far away, to stay, from visitors' view,
for to see it - you will go blind.

"The Terror Terrace Sets Its Tone" (Entry 246)

Small two up - two down and made of brick.
Tiles on roof piled high and think.
Drive at front, fenced garden at back.
But it's more than it seems and that's a fact!

"Waiting at the Crossroads" (Entry 188)

He waits.
He knows.
That they will come along in droves.
The guilty and desperate.
The angst ridden and loved to late.
Wanting help and change.
To take away memories and blame.
So he waits.
The Crossroads Stranger.
Meet him.
Remember the danger.
His price? Yes, his toll.
He's after your soul.