it is quite an obscure book,
the mouse and his child
by russell hoban, some
of you will have heard
of it.

pictures by lillian hoban,
perhaps a relative.

the photo is of r.k.narayan,
breaks a rule
so this may be deleted.

this is an installation, a
love of old things.

some members will be sad
today, and we shall
empathise.

sbm.

laundry day is tuesday, it is collected.

brought back clean on friday, a card
label, cloth number, stuckt.

he uses the stable to deliver, not
disturbing anyone.

when all is unpacked, white and ironed,
we change again. it is another week.

the pattern continues. cloth numbers.

sbm.

who so mrs ciano ?



are you blest, is this

how to say your name?



ask the curator, learn

another world, where

not all is at it seems.



it is just an opinion.



they took the paper, the cotton

away.



©sbm.

they know i am away

the bear told them.



i had a converstaion

telling him to be

brave and responsible

as i must be.



he nodded gravely,

and will be.



sbm.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

shall we go away to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hiding in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.

now the bear is awake.







it was all the disruption disturbed me.



yes.



are they finished now?



no, they will be back again.



i stayed in bed all day yesterday, didn’t i?



yes.



sbm.