you are younger than i ; stride out  quickly.

it is my birthday walk down the estuary. it

is good to hit the sunny patch and hear

the bird call.

a cold day,  november. we decide to

turn, return.

you mention that we had come far,  it seems

that you are walking faster.

or am i lagging behind. now.

sbm.

there are no photographs.

do not emblame your heart nor fear

that this is spelled. do not be afraid

that this will hurt you, for it will pass.



it is a romant

ic thing, a memory in a

vase.



hampreston.



sbm.

is this the final drop, slowly. not the white

wind blown kind that raises spirits.     this

is due to a colder day, early morning      five

below.



maybe this or a lack of adrenaline       caused

it, the coming together of years           which

slowly pass.



shadows of birds. dust motes in air.



marmalade toast.



is this the final drop?



sbm.

a story nonetheless, as are others. i prefer tintin

with snowy a dog. this year you have not told me,

confided. i have the little things that could mean

much.



not about money, more about family. it may

be time you told them.



it is time to regrade

christmas.



sbm.

it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.


unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that word is is politically allowed

these days. in disorder,  subconcious,

tide rising , lifting **** .


once realised, that it is time

again, settle back in to the season.


be known that i cannot keep things alive,

i have no power, no means of identification.


sbm.

there is a flower bed and a cow,
called margaret, how delightful.

the villagers are dressed
well for their situation,
their station.

the child drooped, pined,
no thought though
of horror and melancholia.

dressed in a plain clean way.

as are we all here.

sbm.

all the novels, and romance,

volume two to forty,

all others being

fakes

that need dusting.



the clocks are silent.

pink sands of time

stand still.



the glass is clouded here.





sbm.