my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.



i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.



i tidy up,                        hang out washing.



demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return    home.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.





yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.



sbm.

&



we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place.                          got to thinking.



&



it comes as no suprise. often ill they die.                                   it is the way.     it is not sad.



&

we are sensed with  loss.                                                                                 that includes you.



he says that’s where the wind comes from,                                       to go most everywhere.



&



probably do not miss him.                       he was not around us much, well  not at all really.

he buggered off.   no inspiration then.                                                   yet.   he was my dad.



&



some day i will carry the bones inside.



sbm.

an idea.

the work continues. red thread and all that abounds there.

the museums.



much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.


linen threads hang heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready. shall we mend the rags,

or pin them ?



remnants remain, hiding. working faster with out all those words, those images . bare bones of the fact

corrupted items  turn with dust.



stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed. work along the coast with thread and diligence.



sbm.



(thanks to the asmolean  and jen jones quilt centre for the prompts)

she said hello, smiled.                                                        i smiled back with no regret.



the books are left tied tightly.





woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.



we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations.                               we thought they were sheltering from the rain.



another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through           winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later,   we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.



give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange,    leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags.                                            or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.



?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.



sbm.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.   does this mean it is spring soon?



i did not know you, yet when  i saw that you were gone too,                                            i felt sadly.



i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.



black bird sings early, the same bird calls late .                                                      drown darkness.



&





small things shelter.                                       there is much to research, decide to believe or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen.                       there are watermarks left.



the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape.       ( spring



will.)







sbm.

. red thread .



we did not know  the red thread of fate,              tied readily .

tied with inevitable red  or                       ****** rags again.

a meditation on thread, mediation of red,    i dream of you.

clearly your clothes remain the same, worn,           washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different.



be well in your mending, despite the pain,    raddled cotton .



pin  to hold life again.









The two people connected by the red thread are destined , regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmates or a destined flame.



(notes for Morrigan, May the first cabinet be locked, the second also, yet leaving the red key in, please?)

Room Two.



. Bound.



comfort bound in       clean                                                       linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



what else will you expect of me             . that, mis spellings or rags.



you see, i say it means nothing.   leather bound, broken, words lost



in boxes.





notes.



:: bound ::

    tied; in bonds: a bound prisoner.
    3.
    made fast as if by a band or bond: She is bound to her family.
    4.
    secured within a cover, as a book.
    5.
    under a legal or moral obligation: He is bound by the terms of the contract.
    6.
    destined; sure; certain: It is bound to happen.



Room Three.



.Crossing.



carefully you  drew crosses on my skin.   i looked at you ‘ kisses?’  no, you said,  crosses……



notes.



i have been asked about secrets, secrets, that I should not tell, and I tell you that I have been kissed truly kissed, and the tear tore my face, a water stripe, dipped in agony and love for you that must be a secret you said, you said, so I will write it here and print it, and print it, and dip it in wax, the kiss.i have been asked



Room Four.



. Stitching.



i have done this,      when all else are asleep,



stitching, thinking,         listening to the rain.





then  the voices                               stopped.



cover  the surface . that stitching can be

rhythmic,



and never mind the capitals. clever words

confound.

the littled dress sewn quietly with love.







we have  many more rooms  to describe…….

we have a memory or two.   the world goes dark, we teach and learn,     wait  for    light to appear



it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things.



it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power,                                       they, no disgust that reels and kicks.                                  yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.



drift. in air, in words.  symbols of poetry, cut and pasted.                                       literally. naturally .



everyday tiny things sing.



when some small birds have failed and gone                                                 others sound just the same.



touched by the small things, softly, we drew





we cannot delete things we do not like

sbm