the blue is a prim,

and pretty room, draped

with musical games

of chance,

for settling here.



harp strings

relay the vital net,

after shakespeare.



the visitors leave.



lord byron wrote

of hours of idleness;

the letters below,

and all the while

you have no love for me,

worrying over the empty barn.



sbm.

106.

we talked of hedges, again,
for these are not
vertical.

we walked the dazzled mirror,

crept.

small and slightly curious ,
is an artist in residence, here?

glass housed and labelled
ten years ago.

this house is closed, yet
will open at 10 am.

sbm

leonard wrote in medieval rhyme, a scrivener,

fond of the waltz, too.

i shall learn to. and wear a river’s disguise

water’s way.



shall we not see thee dancing?



i shall walk in the way and you may call us dancing

meandering thoughts, consequences, a pas de deux

many may see us dance, few will hear the music

. in and out of season.





sbm.

i have no manners, i will not    apologise

for being. nor say sorry for what you did.

and said.

i will not make excuses and reasons    for

your action nor what i did in repair.  i am

no gentleman, certainly     neither are you.

there is no sincere apology for my   being.

here.

sbm.

saw him twice, dying maybe dead at the walker,the larger  pictures.



he looked poorly, very grey, his friends around looking concerned.

his

sleeve flappy.



there was not much blood though considering all the wounded and dead

pictured there.



i like the paintings, very lively with not much life, mostly war and death.

some

criticise modern art for being gloomy, need to visit the walker full of death

and torture alongside

the jerwood painting prize. poor old napoloen, can you spell it?

look up the roof is leaking.



a lovely day.



sbm.

were extinct is this country once, have been brought back from holidays

abroad.



he said.



they smell of almonds and so does bakewell **** with jam and coconut.



and arsenic.



two on a slide to enlarge,male and female, slightly pink and quite pretty.



i can see his doins   without the lens. they live in beds you know, he said.



if infested one must be fumigated by the pest people, with some fumes.



i took a photo, yet wobbled in my enthusiasm so it did not work well.



i told the lady on the bus about them and she said yes she thought she

had  them once and cleaned incessantly.the doctor said it was gnats

that had  bit her.



she said she never puts her suitcase on beds while on a holiday, abroad.



sbm.

he knows stuff, facts,and        figures

while i am astounded.the sun  comes

out by the drawers.    open they show

me birds and insects.      did you know

they cross their fragile legs      and tie

with cotton threads.

did you know that we are the only         ones

who do not eat insects and that            there

are more species of beetles than              any

other creature. having lost the             sexton

i despair while some                                  tick.

they thought it was the soul from the     dead.





i thought penguins were smaller and         that

an elephant had more teeth than                 that.

you let me hold one;  it was so heavy          so you

show me the tusks too, and we talked about trunks

and headaches.

it was hot there and hungry so i went for lunch,

a sandwich, returned later to look through   the

microscope.the man in the museum helped me.

there are fibres everywhere and when our   coat

comes

off he said there is a shower we cannot see only

imagine.

later i saw a sputnick, yet i liked the mothths and

beetles best. so does the man in the         museum.

sbm.