What the baker sees when she kneads, what she hears on the radio, her lurking stories and idle thoughts. At the centre, the morphing loaf. Different yet the same, week by week. With sourdough recipe.

Swift absorption, moments of unease, the state of play on the day, inside and out, knowing life by the days she writes, losing it by the days that get away.

Kefir is a fractal, a yoghurt plant, a zoo in a bowl – and growing – given a few simple conditions. A rambling yet practical poem for cooks, walkers and physicists.

'It would take one bee, working all hours, eight years to make a pound of honey.' The diary of a writer, teacher, gardener, beekeeper on the eve of a new life. For the diarist with book and pen, unlike the online blogger, it's a curious move to make the private public. Tell the bees is a tiny novel in which inner life meets everyday life - and ten thousand bees.

One packed universe after another, tiny separate adventures, a high-end hum, intermittent, like morse code. Companion volume to Tell the bees. Another breathless diary zone, in poem form. A monad is the simplest knowable unit of life. Like atoms, only bigger and older.