one of the bears is my ancestor,

illogical i know. he has come to

live here quietly respecting

all that is happening now.



what is that?, he said in itallics.



it is my phone.



how do you explain that?



same as i explained it to him,

i can talk to people who are not here.



ah, the way you talk to me?



yes.



sbm.

it is quite an obscure book,
the mouse and his child
by russell hoban, some
of you will have heard
of it.

pictures by lillian hoban,
perhaps a relative.

the photo is of r.k.narayan,
breaks a rule
so this may be deleted.

this is an installation, a
love of old things.

some members will be sad
today, and we shall
empathise.

sbm.

laundry day is tuesday, it is collected.

brought back clean on friday, a card
label, cloth number, stuckt.

he uses the stable to deliver, not
disturbing anyone.

when all is unpacked, white and ironed,
we change again. it is another week.

the pattern continues. cloth numbers.

sbm.

who so mrs ciano ?



are you blest, is this

how to say your name?



ask the curator, learn

another world, where

not all is at it seems.



it is just an opinion.



they took the paper, the cotton

away.



©sbm.

they know i am away

the bear told them.



i had a converstaion

telling him to be

brave and responsible

as i must be.



he nodded gravely,

and will be.



sbm.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

shall we go away to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hiding in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.

now the bear is awake.







it was all the disruption disturbed me.



yes.



are they finished now?



no, they will be back again.



i stayed in bed all day yesterday, didn’t i?



yes.



sbm.

his mother died, she was ill,

yet it is never expected.



they came back this morning,

a few of them, one showed

me the blisters on his hands.



they work well together.



i mended my boots.



the cobbler was not interested.



sbm.

we rise early today, have been warned there is no power

here all day seems to me a good thing. seems to me

that light comes from the sun and life can be good.

without power.



not one of us is better

than the other, maybe different.



sbm.

one man is upside down,
the other man helps him.

these are the better days,
no one has weapons.
sbm.

run from the full moon,

race while the sky turns red

and all is falling.



go to the shore, hide

while the world is at war,

and all is falling.



there is light on the

water, can you feel it

while all are falling?



sbm.

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.


waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.


all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.


you do not need to buy them, you can

caress them nicely.


they are soft when born, soft as babies are.


above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.


he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

sbm.

an empty shell, i carried it carefully.



the bird had flown,

and while some are sad,

it is a new life and

we must move on.



carefully.



sbm.

she said i will write of it, remember and she is correct.



the day at the national library, all red carpet for us,

empty cabinets, tapes left dusty.



we watched the serving, watched him drinking

five glasses of water before he walked away.



sbm.

deserves  praise, yet should come as natural.



there may be to many additives these day,

not enough honesty grown. she said i should

have something new in the greenhouse.



i have, i said, and thought of you, who



planted the seeds



Sbm.

air cut clean.

dawn. herons crake

over.

a leaf falls.

friday morning.

sbm.

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.
sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

so feeling sickly

we confused the

artificial

for real.



came in from the sun.



dazed in the parlour,

until the feeling passed.



sbm.

have you ever gone back,
that painful journey,
watching swallows dip
as if they had never been away.

staggering the stones
you may find god in
water falling.

echoing all the tears
of your life.

sbm.

it is another floral day,
with spring skies
and sunshine.

cotton fabrics,
bloom.

sbm.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

a busy little thing, buzzing down the estuary,

then back again, up and back,                          practising.


in order to acquire, improve or maintain proficiency in it.
“I need to practise my French”



no clouds to cover .                               it was a gentle day

of gardens, les cloche and legume given freely.



the pronounciation was not at all as it should be,

the company all welcome.



later the v22, toy osprey.                           delight.



sbm.

sand blown softly

patterned, seeded.



grass grows.



dunes.





sbm.

he admitted it was not working properly,

yet they still bowed thier heads and said it.



have they thought of changing it all,   back

to basics. we fear it is to late, it has all been

going on so long.                      too many of us.



he gave his opinion which seems disloyal, yet

they had polished the floor, which

placed the garderobe off limits.



sbm.

it is a longer way,

mostly up hill then,

down.



we go round one way

one day,

then another way,

another day,



avoiding people.



mainly, yet we

talk to the stone mason

who likes to avoid

people too.



once i came this way with you.



sbm.

it is a lighter shade
of a darker green,

a fern behind at
benmore gardens.
dunoon.

later we had tea,
an empire biscuit.

we always do.

sbm.

having googled it says one may lose a pound,

not in old money, in lbs, you may have heard of them?

young folk.

was printed in the back of exercise books along

with furlongs , rods and perches.



i tell you this you will gain

an insight for natural things,

and sleep intensely well.



sbm.

so there will be a delay,       yet the work will continue.



we shall think of you fondly, as we think of our own past,

our misdemeanors.



how the shapes fit together, somewhat randomly and form

the creatures we are today.



there is no reason, no purpose to it all. just us. you and me,

christine.



sbm.

black topics.

cause and effects,
the butterfly’s wing.

so here on the night watch,
all is quiet , no birds sing.

touched by the small thing,
softly, we drew together,
with words, and gestures
in air, in mind.

touched by the old things
i draw and weave
the ways of night.

upload the black heart,
later.

i write, edit, delete.
words here,
you cannot see,
do they leave a trace,
tell me.

do you sense their meaning,
and the rhyme,
are there codes
between the lines.

is there something
in words not said,
or is it here,
as clear,
as day.

when it comes..



sbm.

the battery is low, yet it has to be said,

that the five are anonymous, the photo

is random to embellish the tale.



they wish to be private, yet cared for

when i am gone. a promise is made.



meanwhile they carry on. good

work, company and care. while



we need to recharge, move on.



spoken sweetly.



sbm.

different these days. i said it did not face south,

when it does, despite the hedge. i had talked about

the bournemouth days, the sea to south, the road

led north.



now here, it does not face the sea, the west,

yet i still thought south, so please do not

listen to a word i say. this is how my brain works

these days.



sbm.

take the photograph
of the photograph,
we have chinese whispers.

we have the closing of the
house soon, wonderland.

removing all things metal,
placing sweet chestnuts
in corners. the outside
paint so very shiny,

interiors.

sbm

there are five of us here, to be a help

and comfort. each one has a different

aspect of care.



nurture ,  protect while all is

growing.



we are diffrent shapes, size and strength.



take us, use us when required, overdue

does not work here.





remember this.



sbm.

cymer, a confluence of two rivers.



if  one ran different, if each thought  were deeper.



tide pools,   north and south,

the moon fills and the current

stops a while.



our  river runs east to west and as the tide pools,

stops a while.



mixing.



take a leaf, watch a swallow, we could be  different.



let the rush stop, stand a while, let us mingle,

north to south, east and west.



no barriers.



sbm.

so he came quite early really,

little fuss or bother, drank

his coffee nicely.



#summerhouse



as did the next one, with

news, that is taken positively.



#belling



so we move forward gently, knowing

now , the man that visited every

sunday, will do so

no more.



#timesup

sbm.

delivery is from 6 am to 7 pm,

so we gets up at 5 am to be

ready and decents, to find

a message to say it will

now be 9am at the earliest.



so we crept about the garden,

heard the owls and imagined

how it will all be.



the summer house.



you and me.



sbm.

makes me better, makes me worse.



it is all ideas that come in gradually.



best to do nothing, see what happens.



this is no race, no competition. this

is medical action for life.



sbm.


*
look at the little people.

arms held high. the medicine

is in the cabinet, they cannot

reach it.

you are not alone, i will help you.



i know.

you have.



yes. you only have to say



thank you bear.



sbm.

hello, why are you awake?



i am watching you



i am clearing this winter damage.



how nice, you will not be able to do that always.



no.



sbm.

searching yet
i find nothing.

huge in
front of me,

the machine
is stuck.

it is decommisioned.

power house.



sbm.

it turned up,   crowned a peasant

doll.



the ring.



imagination

set him free.



it is a safer place to be.



less words

are better.



the ring.



sbm.

we lerned how to play,
one letter at a time or
they gets stuck.

badly.



sbm.

i am eight now nearly nine.  tall.



18.65   work the deep mine.  small.



6  to 6,  break for bread,

and poetry.



do not whistle, save your breath.







18.70 .

apprenticed, looking

for promotion. chains.



he is forty one i think,

lungs are stone.





forty five,  19.03

done.



slate breath.



sbm.

shroud may seem biblical,

more every day really.

those and these days.

future days, though those

do not exist.



yet or ever.



like marmalade.



sbm.

no news on sunday, asking why
am told that it was news all week,
there fore we need a rest one day.

moving on, i am engrossed in folding,
balancing, all those things i am
employed to do, some days.

the war may stop one day.

hopefully.

sbm.

some thing is changing here,

so slight it can hardly be

noticed.



yet it has been.  a feeling,

came with the light rain .



the quietness



all things are changing,

by now we shall know it,

as

all things change.



we cannot alter.



that is the constant.



sbm.

some can be serious, full of good intent.



i understand this one is labelled, yet



some i have met are not sure about all

this any more. a few like little things,

will be happy with pins.



did you know that angels are born with

dresses on?



oh , the powers and dominions.



sbm.

regarding labelling.

we are not what people think of us, it goes deeper than that,

we are not the words people say, it goes deeper than that.



we are not made by our history, it is something,

deeper than that.

then  in a picture, it is not what you see on the surface,

it is far deeper than that.



#repeated.



sbm.