time is upon us, as he writes, fine  dust from the fire,                                       the old way.



we used to sit the rise and think of this. drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields . found and waded the poppies outside the ****,             worked the red thread. again.                     danced .



it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that, he said.   does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty room.                                                                                                           yellow.



down by where we park is a cement mixer, sometimes.



©sbm

there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words.        we are sorry that you cried.

it has been a good morning so far.   with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip.   i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely,              kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.

it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same. we move



on. on.

together.



sbm.

it has been so, so many years. dormant.



hurts and atrocities.



you did not know you said it.

did not remember.

did not mean it.



sixty years later, passed it forward

when you shouted.         this is how

things go                                   round.



for which i apologise.

hurts and atrocities.



sbm.

darkness descends upon our houses.

watch  it unfold as predicted. you

did not listen.



you said it will all be great again,

not that it ever was. now we watch

as darkness descends.



descends upon our houses.

sbm.

ceilings, automatic doors. tread carefully the red carpet.
watch.                                                the landscapes quietly.



the



building where I lost myself, found one    worn stair,

walled words                                                  on bravery.



we laughed at his phone         vibrating the glass table,

automatically.                           there are no  heros here.



just quiet and responsibility.



books bound in leather.



©sbm.

she orders  a sonnet about modern           tech

nology , some         recent language            urban

slang.  wiki  & googling    helps while spellcheck

defeats nistakes .            publishing on blurb and







lulu. gifs  no issue.  focus                        on  taste.

.work.   memes are impossible to       pronounce.

denounce the pass it forward,            copy/ paste.

why write verse when   we can talk or   announce



loudly.. save in my cloud to edit                  share

. no rhyme no more.                         no elizabethan

manner.          we taps  it clear.        is with difficulty

keyboards sticky,                 some have no empathy



that I prefer old ways. yet                       computer

smart create in a more abstract                manner



©sbm

run in parallel lines, find words have no control. the lake on the other hand, padded , dark through medieval floating green. a day of shifting gravity, i wonder to slip

in gracefully,

after diving nicely

clear eyes ,

bound throat.

remember the cold ness of the day.

glow in groups of style and ease. now.

die back gracefully or be
trimmed?



sbm.