From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.

A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.

Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.

Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.

When Rome fell down,
Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.

He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.

As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street,
In Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James...
To name a few.

Amassing titles and cups
From every division
Of the Grimsby League:
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.

No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long-pimples for our Don.
Give him a plain old Barna bat,
Devoid of sponge, short-pimples out,
To give that ball a mighty clout.

The simple things in life
Were all he wished:
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess,
Would always go down well.

This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.

Paul Butters

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Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.  
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.

He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.

Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.

I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.

Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy  brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.

With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.

    
                                  Paul  Anthony Hutchinson

to me
Niagara is represented
by the seasons

it starts off
as a new year,
fresh snow on the ground,
endless possibilities

you step out of your house,
maybe on Devine Crescent in Thorold,
and that first breath
of crisp winter air
fills your lungs
and freezes you to the bone
and reminds you that you are alive

everything is always
so still
on January 1st

like a clean slate,
an empty canvas

and then movement begins to paint the beginning of a detailed picture

[migrating geese,
the rustle of a tree,
a car alarm going off,
the sun trying to peak through the grey clouds,
a friend shouting your name]

and the moment shatters
and the new year officially begins

maybe it starts off
with breakfast at Lester Dees
and quickly, but silently,
unfurls into a whirlwind
of school and work and birthdays and holidays and movies and dates and a trip to Niagara Falls and a stroll through Niagara-on-the-Lake and a hike through the Escarpment in Grimsby and joy and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears
and moments

spring blossoms
you feel drenched by the April rain
and weighted down from melodramatic February

but you also feel that sense
of hope
that tingling in your toes
that something good is coming

so enjoy a drink
on a patio in Port Dalhousie,
and crank the volume up
a little bit louder
before a concert at Mansion House,
and take in the scenery
as you run along the Welland Canal

because spring is here

as the days get longer
and the sun gets hotter
summer, lazy as a sloth, engulfs Niagara

Crystal Beach is in full swing
and summer becomes home
to barbecues, camping adventures, road trips, hiking at DeCew Falls, late night laughter, reminiscing around a campfire, the reuniting of old friends, dips in ice cold pools and water gun wars

and as slow and nonchalant
as it entered your life
summer slips away,
like the golden sunsets that it harbors

the leaves change to brilliant shades
of red, yellow and orange,
we wrap ourselves in scarves
and hats and mitts

the world quietly changes around us

fall gives us
warm nights by the fireside
and hands locked while walking along the Escarpment, the city stretched out below

while the squirrels scrounge for food,
we, too, scamper around,
wondering where the year has gone

some will exhale,
a sigh of relief
and some will allow
a large, satisfied grin to stretch across their face

and fall is just that,
a time to reflect
on all that has gone right
and all that has gone wrong

what resolutions did we keep,
and what did we let melt away,
with the humid summer heat

Niagara changes every year
but it is consistent in its ability
to mold new life, to stretch itself, to immerse itself in every season, to provide outlets to enjoy life, to be that friend that is always there to fall back on
and to provide those memories that bring a smile to your face
and leave a warm feeling in your heart
Niagara is home.

On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar

A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA

We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call

Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England

We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters  in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam

Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada

We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA

Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay

Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick

Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes

There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains

Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending

Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.

The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.

The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.

But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.

The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.

He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.

His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.

‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.

His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.

David Lewis Paget

Where are you now?
Cairo?
Detroit?
Grimsby or Paris?

What are you thinking?
Finances?
***?
Luxuries?
Nothing?

Like a twig
shaking in the cold
winter wind

Like everyone
that ever lived
you haven't.

A fishbone's image on the wire
in the orbital district,
the white coated scientists are embargoing
this news discovery about Mars.
Grimsby is too far from home
MacFisheries here already
Liptons on the Way.

Young Music
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.  
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.

He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.

Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.

I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.

Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy  brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.

With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.

    
                                  Paul  Anthony Hutchinson
Brook Trout Press
Grimsby and Toronto, Ontario,  Canada

Public opinion

Confusion reigns until his lordship explains
that our best interests are served by
remaining in service

no education for free for this
subject,
subject to decree from
her highness,
most royal majesty

Informally known as Lizzie.

His lordship is marking our card,
we must work very hard
get little pay
not too much noise
and
no *** on Sunday,

what a way to have to live
they take, take, take
and we try to live on
**** all
they live in a bigger hall
which still means **** all
to me.

I'm voting
one way or another
I'm voting

boring into the dead wood

Breadcrumbs.
I am Hansel and Gretel being
dead good.

Liz gets down to the business of queening,
cleaning the silverware'
getting rid of the peasants who get in her hair
tending to Phil
having her fill of kedgeree
and sod all for the likes of me,

She's off my Christmas list

if we were a republic

A peasant? revolting,
his lordship puts the boot in
but
the fault's in the system
we all need rewiring.

I'm going to Grimsby
that place will suit me
fish, chips and a
mug of tea
bye bye your majesty
don't wait up
I'll be home late.

lieutenant sticks, that's what they called him,
kij denotes a stick, without confusion
the emphasis of an olé (diacritical marks
are punctuations in punctuation) -
russians love to read, so you begin writing for
russians... a bit simple...
               i know they will one day approve
diacritical marks for the j, and depose the dot
above it like a halo...
  so i then get to say: key-jay....
           unitl that day happens i won't be found
playing the piano, able to read the notes
of a composition...
          nor draw blood from my fingers when
allowing myself the second thought of chess...
but some day along this carpe diem expansion
i will say: that day i took l.s.d.,
          and also that memory of 1950s
technicolor films made all the more sense...
       and it really was that saturation of colour,
the original saturation of colour translated onto screen...
like fake-tan orange of essex,
                  i'm about to juggle watermelons: wee!
productive sarcasm or even counter-productive sarcasm
never really sticks to a frying-pan of salivated over
pancakes readied for breakfast or some hereafter...
slobber gusto is not exactly a case of Pavlov's...
nor is reading a sunday newspaper...
               i can only think of a "metaphor" of walking
the dog in an english park and picking up
its ****... so much so for agonising myself reading
a newspaper... so i guess i now get to write the word
similie, in italics preceded by the colon heresy and not
reaching for the b, i.e.: italics.
when did i become so twitchy and double pardon
a concern for appreciating the comment?
last time i read jane eyre and started thinking about
that madwoman in the attic, that was rochester's
first wife... about that time...
      unlike that case of being a "poet" and writing
a scenario, i feel no guilt over these compositions,
   why did bukowski have the c.i.a. onto him and not
the f.b.i.?
                could you tell me if he was a spy?
oh look... a tumbleweed moment...
                             so i was talking to these two drunks
in this shady place at night
  and just blah blah blah later we exchanged
ethnic content, and one said he lived in
birmingham for a while, that place where ozzy
came from... and it's not like they even call
that city a "venice of the west", or a "st. petersburg of the west",
just as well... they twinned the town of
grimsby to chernobyl...
        they have edinburgh the "athens of the north",
they have amsterdam, the "venice of the north"...
and then you get birmingham,
and it could apply for a romance from somone,
like the venice of north-west... north by north west...
i'm not ignorant because of copernicus:
just a little bit disorientated trying to translate
sign-language from chinese ideograms...
   the idea was: ching chang walla(h)...
               extend that and you have imitations of dolly,
oh... finding dory...
   or... when in suffering, make a comedy...
like that pain adoolf hihi-tler felt watching a charlie
chaplin movie and saying: that moustache gig
is going to conquer the world.
   so where was i?
                   if you build a labyrinth you're bound
to ask the question of where you are?
     ah right, heading for the mortality exit...
concentrating on some word that would make no sense
to the average cognitive tactic of narration...
                 kije! - yep, sticks, that's the plural
version of kij, which just means stick...
    i really want to put a macron over that j
      so people don't confuse yahweh with jesus
   or add fractions to the concept...
or what the ancient greeks did, i.e. doing the dumbest
thing possible of sub-humanising the jews...
             suddenly Y                              is very far
from
                                                                             J
via gamma...       was that me trying to
  turn the tongue into a saxophone of cool?
  is that word even as half relevant these days as disco?
or is that when good becomes "evil"
   and evil becomes "good" and we call
                          a nightclub a slaughterhouse?
"   " aside... you don't get to play the existentialists
when it comes to words like list from
   the thesaurus (rex) beginning with the word red...
  the book states the "ambiguity"
                     via its synonym basis: crimson, burgundy...
red... rose...
or as kant would put it: we need the categorical
imperative, not to be "good", but to make
clear distinctions...
               and what a sad sad affair that has become,
when having looked for all the facts,
we became stunted and now argue with
what is the chiral (evidently opposite of facts) statements;
so they had genes and so they came up with memes...
facts need the opposite unit for them to be
the much needed resource...
              i guess i can't "coin a phrase" working
on this angle... because a word already exists to counter
factual expressions... you posit the chiral version
of facts on the word...                 factoid.

lady gaga: i like it rough:

what was ever wrong with being tender, treating a body
opposite to one's own like porcelain?
                  never mind...
                     these days i'd rather
be bound to caressing a cat than
touching a woman.
   me? gift to women? a don juan?
**** no!
              ha ha!
                i'm waiting for the comedy
of seeing women age and become
barren due to their cherry-picking
        not having entered a harem...
mmm...
               what now?!
                         conversations with your mother?
me? i already told mine: i know
where switzerland is... and i'm thankful
for their competence in discussing euthanasia...
sure, i'll hold your hand, because i'll
take the same route...
                    i think that's called the serenity
of dignifying something called a: human.
after a while or the years: i just
lost interest with all the ***** *****-slapping...
    i can't remember a ******* wanting
the sort of fetishes these free-women of the western
world want or sing about, or frankly
celebrate...
                     i must be victorian...
a 21st century *jack? he wouldn't be after
the prostitutes...
                            believe me...
                                after a while you're
just like: whatever... can't be bothered.
                            the totem of jealousy dries up
anyway, given enough time for it to do so...
         an old bachelor? akin to mr. portillo?
   nothing sad about that...
                   it's actually quiet welcoming that a man
could accomplish being a bachelor at his age...
but with women?
                that's just sad... a bit like the fetish
women have with mr. rochester and the madwoman
in the attic... i'm starting to think:
         when's edward coming out with
                                                     entire circus?
oh right: now they can't handle reality!
but they're still into "loov"; beckoning Grimsby!
    this language has as much monetary value
as a penny dropped on the street in Silesia / Śląsk.

Using the art of triangulation
I plot what I think's my position,
the universe thinks differently
and expands my point of view.

The creator,
a failed realtor
or what?

Celestial snooker.

To lose one world is unfortunate
and so on and so on, but it goes on
and in the end it will end

nothing is patently obvious
except the shine in that
new pair of shoes.

On a whimsy
I paint
' made in Grimsby '
on the back of a Leyland bus.

I should shoot by starlight
I might get my position
right.

I sail on into the reach
of the night
and anchor on the dark side
of the Moon.

Vic Davies
That Davies bloke called Vic
He showed he isn't thick.
His table tennis can get bad,
Especially when he gets mad.

Liz Conolly
Mrs. Conolly, first name Liz,
Really, really is the biz.
Loves a seat at the front table,
Always gets there if she’s able.

**** Staples
Ah, here is **** Staples:
Loves his football from Grimsby to Naples.
Could be a pundit on the telly,
Always gives it plenty of welly.

Phil Sharpe
Mister Sharpe, first name Phil:
At table tennis he knows the drill.
Master of defensive ploys,
Wins his matches with lots of poise.

Ron Dawson (added 9\1\23)
Cider and Ale to Ron Dawson known as Rocket.
He has the whole World in his pocket.
Knows the routes of all the trains:
Lots of knowledge (on brewing and trains) fills his brains.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\1\23.

If the BBC...
Knew how we all really do talk in the car,
Of our real opinions,
Our views,
Of what we think of certain people in life,
How our daily chat is embroiled in what they don't report,
Our loves that don't include politics,
A real box to tick,
Who we hate,
Who we really do rate,
And who should go into that next big seat at No.10,
Then the BBC should speak to the man on the street,

The British builder,
The factory worker
The delivery driver
The plumber
The average office worker
The struggling student and not those whose parents have money
The small towns near Grimsby,Bristol and those in Newcastle
The real man
The Nine til Five and then the Seven til' Eleven
The every penny earnt and still they are struggling

If the BBC actually reported on this,
Then this would be the real Britain they would be showing,
Yet,

JJB

She was provocative,
a slapper, all botox, **** and tats.
Lived life on the edge.
Never showed her nicer side
always wanting a bigger, better wedge!

She met her latest bloke on-line,
a bouncer from the pool.
Got a Phd in fighting *****…scrapping!
Never let ‘em see you’re rattled
just moody, muscly, strapping.

They make a handsome pair
she with her scraped back
Grimsby facelift; tight hair, nose ring, tongue stud.
Him? A tattooed tear on his cheek
straight back, full height, flex; thinks he’s looking good.

‘Cut along dotted line’…dot-dash inked around his neck.
If your name’s not down you’re not comin’ in
But if you’re a looker - well, what the heck?
I run the door - In fact I run the place,
always prepared to be persuaded by a pretty little face.

Wages don’t add up to much so, punters’ll oblige
got a nice line in scanning cards, cloning, fakin’
and spending other people’s money on ‘out’ that I can sell.
The job dun’t pay that much you see, so what the hell?
Claiming? What if I am? Any road - how could you tell?

We make a tidy sum, the two of us, just the same
and if we need some extra there’s allus 'the game'.
We love each other right enough a match that suits us both.
but we drift into ‘***** and fleece’ to score a few more quid.
It’s a sordid, morbid low, low life - when you lift the lid.

He turns..."You want some mate? Nah!… I didn’t think you did!"

He'd wig and the angry itch.
Yes ******* right.
I'm insane and ****.
A notoriously crazy *****
That rocks like.
Naked 80s hits.
Nolstagic.
For the gayest ****.
Like cornrows braiding.
Up your staff...
*** it's more ape like.
Than our ancestral
Relationship.....

I say this ****...
Knowing I could save the world.
Or maybe make em feel
It's so worth saving ****....
No matter what ******* race you is.
Or if your old or fat.
Allergic to a cat.
Or rocking braces *****....
You rich.
You slow
You like oasis wonderwall.
And Robert gowans ******* greatest hits......
Those are both good jams.
So if you like em don't think I'm saying ****...
I just meant I won't alienate you
Never
Like the older kids did when they was raising us
I wanted to be gangster so bad.
Eventually made em knew
That I'm a ****** kid.

Got accepted by some ride or dies.
And flagged by some ***** hater kids...

Now I live like I'm a Roman candle.
But I'm not staging flames
In no relationship.
I'm aimed at making everybody understand.
My angel like nature and my satan ****.
I'm bad but not perfect.
I'm great but not okay with it.
I'll laugh at you sometimes.
So were even. For all of the related ****
Insinuated. Im the bad guy Like I'm a killer.
With a ****** wit.
I prefer to think your
All my brothers grimsby.
Bout to get massaged by the real
****** kid
And I rush in and ******* save your ****.
Not knowing it's a therapist

Why do I struggle with basic languages. Oh **** *******  there it is....
So cut my shoes off and judge me.
For the frozen feet... I'm always wearing kid
I live in anguish with
Maybe one day.
Make Julien leplay
Perform a benefit for cardio vasc.
Deficiencies. Parkinsons.
And all the **** that's cancerous
While I blaze cannabis.
With the cancer kids
Until we realize we are merely just a glimmer of eternal light.
Gliding through a path of tricks.
That reflects a common sense
We pass as Devine knowings.
Through our ancestry **** and family ****....
We reflect this light
In all that's grown.
Inside our tangled garden we call
Intangible. Until the Angel's
Need an apple quick.
Than see a child return.
As a rebirth.
Or pathway that demasks the tricks.
And ask yourself.
How can a devil
Be so graceful.
I reply.
*** I'm a cancer kid

dear friend

i justed received your very welcome letter

&

instead of buttons, i have a pencil note

note that i use a pen

&

like my drawings may make mistakes

with drawings that is my intention

to see where it takes me, where it

takes the viewer

&

if no one sees it anyway, never mind

i have never been to grimsby

&

should like to visit one day

when we are allowed out again

i planned to write this sitting at the table

by the window like a lady in a novel yet

find i am on the floor crouching at the

coffee table

plans fail

the meter man came

& he kept his distance on command beautifully

young lad with red hair

&

an angry boil on his neck

this morning i woke to birdsong

opened the window wide to listen

to them rather than the radio

pleasant days despite the underlying anxiety

over family health & wellbeing

most of my erasers are filthy as i use chunks

of charcoal

&

draw back in with the rubber

i do wash them in the machine sometimes you know

as i write i notice more dust over there to be swept

aside later

i glory in four first class stamps left so this will fly

quickly if i post it soon

yes, leaving things alone a while works for me

on my return i may see things more clearly

&

a way to proceed.