I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.

Posted on August 11, 2016

the bank cuts by,

the path next the
sea.

air is clean here,
sailors are honest
about the weather.



it is a good idea

to visit each year.



sbm.

time is limited these days.

those one admired in youth

devastate us now.



can we know all things, we

only went twice ?



the back road was

littered, rather blustery.



today



clouds blow in, leaves

crake and groan.



i say again, a darker green.



sbm.

hell no. i cannot think of it everyday,

nor have regrets, ignoring memes.





held deep and private,   a way

to live.



think.



remember what you said.

to me.







hell no.



sbm.

my heart leapt, when he said.



his home, he can see the beauty

there. with reality

and fiddling. films it.



forgets the language, passes

the garage and looks to me

to talk on the succulents

that grow on gabions.



my heart soars that we have

a beautiful home, with

few expectations

now.



sbm.

52.57.

something happened, something
changed inside me, the moon slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

did you speak to me, was that you I heard in the
garden calling.

is it really such a little thing.

the connection.

sbm.

so we gets up early having dreamed of you,

and planned all the good work.



takes to the garden before the heat sets in hot.



done half when we hits a rock, bent our blade.



all things may come right in time, if you

loves the ones you think you don’t.



yet then, what do i know really, except the metal

twisted.



the washing is on nicely, while i takes the *******

out.



sbm.

winding wool.



together.



sbm.

hello, i am 89 and still in good health,

much like the queen, may i sit here?



i am waiting on a toasted tea cake.



i have not seen the garden yet and never

will. i shall sit by the bus stop later

and talk.



i worked in the motor trade.



sbm.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging,
while i have seen so much. i forgot

to ask about your trip. i had driven
the mountain to see you, parked
nicely, kissed your cheek, talked

about the issues, seen the art work.

this morning is like autumn, though
still in july, softness lowering.

i am so sorry, i forgot to ask
about your trip.

sbm.