his mother died, she was ill,

yet it is never expected.



they came back this morning,

a few of them, one showed

me the blisters on his hands.



they work well together.



i mended my boots.



the cobbler was not interested.



sbm.

we rise early today, have been warned there is no power

here all day seems to me a good thing. seems to me

that light comes from the sun and life can be good.

without power.



not one of us is better

than the other, maybe different.



sbm.

one man is upside down,
the other man helps him.

these are the better days,
no one has weapons.
sbm.

run from the full moon,

race while the sky turns red

and all is falling.



go to the shore, hide

while the world is at war,

and all is falling.



there is light on the

water, can you feel it

while all are falling?



sbm.

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.


waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.


all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.


you do not need to buy them, you can

caress them nicely.


they are soft when born, soft as babies are.


above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.


he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

sbm.

an empty shell, i carried it carefully.



the bird had flown,

and while some are sad,

it is a new life and

we must move on.



carefully.



sbm.

she said i will write of it, remember and she is correct.



the day at the national library, all red carpet for us,

empty cabinets, tapes left dusty.



we watched the serving, watched him drinking

five glasses of water before he walked away.



sbm.