deserves  praise, yet should come as natural.



there may be to many additives these day,

not enough honesty grown. she said i should

have something new in the greenhouse.



i have, i said, and thought of you, who



planted the seeds



Sbm.

air cut clean.

dawn. herons crake

over.

a leaf falls.

friday morning.

sbm.

demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the  words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is  a small hope to always return home.
sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

so feeling sickly

we confused the

artificial

for real.



came in from the sun.



dazed in the parlour,

until the feeling passed.



sbm.

have you ever gone back,
that painful journey,
watching swallows dip
as if they had never been away.

staggering the stones
you may find god in
water falling.

echoing all the tears
of your life.

sbm.

it is another floral day,
with spring skies
and sunshine.

cotton fabrics,
bloom.

sbm.