HeyJaredLifeThymes on Substack
Curating a life of simple satisfactions; a well stacked log shed, a cup of tea in the early dawn, growing wildflowers in place of lawn. All from a tiny rented estate cottage in the South Downs. Settle in, I'll put the kettle on.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Sep 18, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 5, 2026
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A poem inspired by encounters with foxes: ‘Foxes make poor bedfellows’. (opens the original)
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Poem: Foxes make poor bedfellowsTuesday. I wakein that unknowable, unnamed hourwhen the flooded heartbeatis a slick oil pool, of black inkthat drips through fissures in the fabric of the world.That is when the fox steps through,entering into my darkness,into our dulled dumb world.I lie breath held,trying to still – to congeal – atomsof supernovas and rock and deep-earth</sp
Goodbye to a Goodie (opens the original)
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Tuesday morning breakfast was a mug of tea, and toast with bramble jam. I ate it gazing at the image on a set of harvest season/autumnal placemats which are a recent purchase from a seller on Etsy and came in their original 'Cloverleaf' branded box with a care leaflet tucked inside. Two large mats and 6 of individual size. One of the large ones is currently looking lovely, standing up as decor in my kitchen. I know it's a bit early in the year to bring out the berries and golden leaves, but I co
Dog Days of Summer (opens the original)
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This July, it’s all been going a bit wrong – probably some planet in retrograde or whatever.Or, maybe it’s just the Dog Days of Summer.We have all perhaps heard this phrase, associated it maybe with those delirium-hazed sultry days of July and August heat as the school year faded into the blurred rules of summer-break, those days that were gagged with the smell of sticky tarmac, and charged with the electro-static white noise of insects in tinder grass. Goose-grass seeds in your plimsolls, the a
The Weft of The Seasons – texture as the soul’s map. (opens the original)
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Spring is the green thin-needled skin-flash of the first fresh nettle.Winter comes wrapped in woven blankets and long velvet ribbons, studded with citrus peel. Dusty down feather and soiled sawdust from the hen coop. The gift of brittle syllables of cat-ice on the metalled lane.It is my ever reaching for the texture of things, the weft of the season, that I think means I don’t bond with Summer the way that Autumn is easy to love.When the chill notches the sunset and mornings are tart as half-rip
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