fog and mist are very slow to clear,

affecting roads and visibility.

no affection here, no one is moving yet.

we hear mansel davies, see the lights,

they are working men, as are we.

some just start later.

he bet me that i did not do a good days work,

i won, just come and watch me.

sbm.

i wrote one hundred words,       exactly.

did i say much?                  i cannot tell .

i can tell you a it may be a        sad tale

of death, and collection, of folk gathering

by the gate.                    by my gate it fell.

sbm.

grass. is not growing so much.

set off early, blades raised. birds watched.

even stopping at the tree, to taste apples,
was quicker, forty minutes.

now then, she is right, they are small.

i was told to take the little ones off,
yet could not bear to do it. my loss.

they are tiny, they are sweet.

we **** them to the core.

it is mid september.

life comes looser now.

sbm.

can be muzzy things, caused by a
sincere lack of liquidisation,
or a symptom of another particle.

substance is taken, ibruprofin, after
hunting the bags, the old bathroom cupboard,
which is tidy now. tea then, and typing, ensuring
the jaw and neck are slack, no tension.

think of montgomery, the garden, relax, and know,

that others have worse than tight head pain.

maybe this is smoke inhalation,
maybe it is nothing at all.

no hormones, no alcohol required.
bandages are useful.

sbm.

maybe not such a good idea,
it may feel fenced in, surrounded.

yet we lean on it, dicuss the time of day,
avoiding price on fish.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of burying. he borrows electricity
a while, while i tidy up, hang out washing.

i miss my company,  went out walking.

no one came this time.

sbm.

we have been there while it is open.

we went there when it was closed. when
no one tidied, while the apples grew.

we sat the geat chairs in all weathers.

now it is open again, and all the flowers
grow.

cywain

sbm.