the start of things, the making of the welsh cape.                      tapestry. we have none here, we have a blanket,     washed and faded.               we started the research and found he lived near the thing he wanted.

we have spoken before. the looms stand idle,                                      some in store some with recognition. machines work less in cold, sheds                              and lack of encouragement.                                we worked the day with thread and needle,      only turning forward, cutting cotton backward.



it is the softest white ply.   woven correctly into squares.   neat.                                    colours merge, while  patterns change through            punctuation   marks.                                  those            looms lay quiet.

seems we have not been to all the mills, never will.               some are gone, yet we have seen them. seen things that are never there.                                                          lost our way, if there ever was one?



yes, you can get used to it. even that.                                       it is a frame of mind. it is not a problem.

we visit trefiw.

we heard the looms working at the top,                                                             so ran the stairs to watch.



we laughed at the odour, the noise and excitement.                                                 hung our arms loose.



again.



sbm.

wrap the house around you, then                            leave it.   out into the only world you know.   anxiety  comes with                                        the unfamiliar.                                                     they call down the chimney.

so i will go back.   look at the buildings. two museums hiding,.               look at the buildings,

this is a mill town.

i watched you both so kind to each other.              apparently

the drive home that feeling came again, after all those years.

some days are soothing, having made a new pattern.                       we have heavy work.all those years ago when i followed  instructions              never thought that i can change them.

so i got home and the wind has blown some of the leaves away….   surprised to find I was crying quietly.

yet   we still wander touching. personal items.

beware the glass, it rattles. beware the clever words.                           at the mill the cloth is heavy

sbm.

have searched the archives lately.

find 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.

school parties, crocodile rows.       she said there was an accident waiting to happen on the stairs,   while others marched shouting, little roman soldiers.            i hid in the auditorium and checked the spelling.

the title, not of my writing.   the larger picture , detailed me into submission.       revisited.

music

blesses  without recording.                               we have the radio.                           this  museum here.

the name will be the title, length an object. all else is waxed and tied as usual,      making it   unusual. when i explained, she asked why will you do that?                 because of the chained library here.

i found perfumed , decked with statues and sympathetic leaflets to no avail.            i saw the people here.   studio, still, paintings.   i saw the artist there.                        the museum, past locked behind glass, and computerised screens, swimming

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at, nothing to buy, like your museum with pins and labels. i am pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new ribbon.

we work towards a new installation, whilst remembering all that there is

in the museum.

sbm.

comes easy if you practice,

if you gather leaves, drive the roads

safely.



flatten paper, hope it tears

slightly, obtain a drifting

look with tissue.



white on white always

works to give a ghostly effect.



it may be you just use envelopes.

yet some  find that packets with

string are more romantic.



always thought i was, yet  do

not join into one, i remain separate.



is that an awful thing?



sbm.

she asked what it is all about. just everyday things to look at,

nothing to buy, like in a museum with pins and labels. i am

pleased to say that the typewriter is arrived and has a    new

riboon, black and red stripes horizontally.

ˌhɒrɪˈzɒnt(ə)li/
adverb.

no, nothing is for sale now and who will want it these days?

she had moved the cabinets, so we paced the upper rooms.

sbm.

the questions came that i cannot answer here   or

ever.



did not count this time only the final one.    then

noticed the first ones  are now undone. the wrong

knots.



tomorrow  go back to mend them.     perhaps i do

not want this to end. do not wish to move on from

here.



this is another year and we are quieter now.



sbm.

the red coat was hiding under layers, but i saw it. red it is, worn, shabby. a friend you say. lining cream silk crumple. the label harris tweed, heather washed, as old. the back a thin satin sash to tie. …

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.   use the brain. remembering strong wrapping paper in folded sheets.   woolworths.   i have a modern roll that tears easily, yet now …

a meditation on thread, mediation of red, i dream of you.   clearly your clothes remain the same, worn, washed, pressed.   your ideas come different, you talk of immersion, and security, nothing was further from my mind.

remember the  old things, ways.   people needles and pins. hold on the shawl, wrapped round, pinned close, stay safe.   be well in your mending, despite the pain, raddled cotton threads.   pinned  to hold life, rusty hinges, prepared …

another day of counting, numbers. some escape the concious gaze, while some are far remembered. numbers incorrect, we move our gaze to mirrors. slanted the world looks pleasant, thread and buttons surround. this is not a metaphor..

the dream, the threads parted a while. visitors came, the day proceeded gently with stops and dictation, who is this?


we worried over news, trembled a while, gathered back the warp, the weft. today we continue.

sbm.