lay dead . do not speak nor ask for   fear.

lay quiet. do not write nor tell. there    are

new shoes by the wardrobe.     at an angle.

still. do not move nor participate in  any

way.

do not breathe, nor cry. there are    new

shoes by the wardrobe,            new shoes.



sbm.

I was never a rose,
But green
Not a chrysanthemum,
Nor an orchid
Something cut,
Walked upon
And yet,
You were the dew
And kissed me,
With a thousand moist kisses
Everynight,
Making me sparkle
In the sunrise

we have a memory or two.   the world goes dark, we teach and learn,     wait  for    light to appear



it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things.



it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power,                                       they, no disgust that reels and kicks.                                  yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.



drift. in air, in words.  symbols of poetry, cut and pasted.                                       literally. naturally .



everyday tiny things sing.



when some small birds have failed and gone                                                 others sound just the same.



touched by the small things, softly, we drew





we cannot delete things we do not like

sbm

the start of things, the making of the welsh cape.                      tapestry. we have none here, we have a blanket,     washed and faded.               we started the research and found he lived near the thing he wanted.

we have spoken before. the looms stand idle,                                      some in store some with recognition. machines work less in cold, sheds                              and lack of encouragement.                                we worked the day with thread and needle,      only turning forward, cutting cotton backward.



it is the softest white ply.   woven correctly into squares.   neat.                                    colours merge, while  patterns change through            punctuation   marks.                                  those            looms lay quiet.

seems we have not been to all the mills, never will.               some are gone, yet we have seen them. seen things that are never there.                                                          lost our way, if there ever was one?



yes, you can get used to it. even that.                                       it is a frame of mind. it is not a problem.

we visit trefiw.

we heard the looms working at the top,                                                             so ran the stairs to watch.



we laughed at the odour, the noise and excitement.                                                 hung our arms loose.



again.



sbm.