who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, rhyme or reason.
breaking of rules,        our hearts
open.                         split a season.

on spring,                 slight chance,
light            or prayers can change.
sons      move in a prouder stance,
yet others rage.

black bird sings   early
the same bird calls late.
sense that nearby
one year came straight.
spring slides. the
moon draws tides.



sbm.

who knows her name now,

times passes.  why do you



paint her?







how to say a name.

one syllable or two?



we were all young then, sliding

about in troubles, growing out.



how to say a name in pictures.



christine.



they wrote of you

in public interest, fact

with fiction.



christine.



who loved you

those days in wraysbury,

london.

who loves you now?







what shall I call you now,

christine?



sbm.

shall i write of sunday, or the

other days?



shall i write of the garden,

or the bear?



i have been reading, and know

that each thing is important,

each task in a day, all

those who hibernate.



creep in, he is snoring,

creep out make some tea.



trim the jasmine, make things

tidy.

ready, for when he wakes.



sbm.

who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, rhyme or reason.
breaking of rules,        our hearts
open.                         split a season.

on spring,                 slight chance,
light            or prayers can change.
sons      move in a prouder stance,
yet others rage.

black bird sings   early
the same bird calls late.
sense that nearby
one year came straight.
spring slides. the
moon draws tides.



sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

stops me in my tracks.



music.



lightens a hard, an edgy mood.



more important than

other things, i will not mention



here. edited.



music.



punctuates the news,  world

matters,   sound of

elegance ..



repeating .



music.



sbm.

it is a tiny place, look
in side and see.

go, position yourself
carefully.

dumb down, retreat,
diminish, resize
like me.

another place,
where words
affect us deeply.

voices will come
and go.      and

while the worlds spins,
this small world
remains intact.



sbm.

gently steams.                                   he

works the issue over.



takes a card and hides it.



solitary man, solitary man.

kettles, cups of tea                immersion.

he

takes a card and looks at it.



daily walks to watch a train.





* takes a photograph and keeps it.



sbm.

drawing slowly, carefully, a minute line,

not as in hours, as in tiny,   little marks

which mean EVERYTHING and nothing.



that is nil, please do not misunderstand,

yet how can you when i keep    dropping

letters.



when everyone is so different from each

other. so we must care and respect some

rules, forget the others.       it may be the

quality

of the lines.



that supports us.





sbm.

so the saving failed,                            thats

probably that i had nothing to            say.

oh yes i can talk loads, chatter,             you

ask anyone. most of the time we are  quiet.

there is the radio and the birds outside.

how clever you are that you can write about

anything.                              someties i cannot.

we hope it will come like spring,         quietly

in.

sbm.

one thing then another, as   all regular days     really.



graphs will show it, we can draw ,        we may discuss.

if we wish,                                                  walk the graden

play with spelling with                                   punctuation.



this is no disaster,                 word survival          deleted.



we have
moved the line into a place of hedges, rural contemplation.

they say it begins at home,  that depends on                 belief.



we eat off broken plates.



titanic.



sbm.

you know that thing, that talking out loud,

when of course it is thinking.      you know

that. saying one thing, when meaning another.



you know that thing when all you are doing is

nothing

in particular, they say it is something.



you know that thing on breaking  rules,

when you broke mine.



that thing, when there is misunderstanding.

that being polite thing.



that thing.



sbm.

once again we come back to ourselves, our life ,

the reality of  things, we stumble through

neatly.



while all around is trembling , we weave together

with dreams and possibilies.



there is not much more to add, it is lighter

now.                                       birds sing early.



once again we come back to ourselves.



sbm.

i woke the bear.

‘ i am inordinately tired now, and you have been away all night. that is not an accusation ,it is an observation.’

yes. is there anything i can do?



‘yes, let me sleep a long time. i wish to be private a while.



yes. yet this is not the season for hibernation.

‘no,  i do not follow the rules, nor crowds, my way is different. i shall still talk to you

in your head, so you will not miss me’



thank you, i know.



the sun came out.



sbm.

‘though i do not think there is one’ says the bear. the bear is taking up a lot of room today.



‘tell me about the earth please?’

look it has layers, bone and blood, yet there are seeds for growth. some fear endearment,

while others do not.



‘why the blood’

old wounds, yet there is more in some places. i have seen the hill of the dying,

it is over the mountain.



‘how sad, may i go see, please?‘



yes bear, now shall we talk of puffy clouds and small faces?



sbm.

we have been discussing his mother recently.

at a request from another.



‘who is my mother’. the bear whispered.



i do not know.



‘why?’



you came as an adult, a wise one.

you never said.



‘then i will never know?’



no, probably not, yet

i love you.



‘thank you’



whispered the bear, then went very quiet.



sbm.

so, said the bear,

‘is there an others day’



no.



‘yet you kept typing it yesterday’



i know. the ‘m’ on y keyboards sticks.



‘perhaps there should be, a special day!’



yes.



i think so too, bear.



sbm.

‘ are you my  mother’, asked the bear.



no.



‘who are you then?’



somebody else’s mother, you and

i are best friends.



‘thankyou’



sbm.

‘ is dark at night, i lay here looking’

yes



‘ not totally black though,

i like the greys and shadow.

i like when the cars go by,

the lights go across the walls’

yes



‘ i do not think i will like very black,

not vantablack like anish kapoor’



said the bear quietly.



its is alright to say so.



sbm.

‘is it?’ says the bear ‘ then i had best dress up’



what as?



‘a bear’



ok, so will i recognise you?



‘yes, because i talk in italic, remember?’



sbm.

‘ look what i have done, all on my own,

i am so proud, yet no one noticed’



not even your best friend?



‘no’



i noticed.



‘yes you notice everything, you care’



thank you



‘we shall help each other’



yes.



sbm.

‘ this clothes thing is getting on my nerves’



said the bear.



‘i am exactly similar in that i wears what i like, no nonsense,

a satin dress with pearls’



yes.

‘all this fuss and dress code is so out of date, get real’,



he said.



sbm.

‘i came from another country, you know,

quite some time ago. i lived in the jungle’



yes.



‘i have been here so long, i feel i belong’



yes.



‘ they call me an immigrant’

said the bear, sadly.



sbm.

i was gone all day, and my feet hurt.

i folded tee shirts, was confused with socks,

tried to be good, got it all wrong.



what did you do, bear.



‘i stayed here all day, i don’t want the money’



sbm.

he was still laying down and mumbling.



‘why have you not shared that one

about belief ?’



i think i forgot.



‘did anyone read it?’



i don’t know.



the bear slipped back to sleep

holding the rags.



sbm.

you know how you can hear me,

when i am thinking. ‘yes that is because

i came from the forest, it is quiet there,

we can hear everything’

yes.

‘where have you been all day?’



here and there and felt the air

on my cheeks.



‘ so i hope the blanket of sadness

is lifting?’



yes. thank you bear.



sbm.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low

like that, says the bear.



does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty

room.



yellow.



sbm.

‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’



sbm

so the bear looks at me and says,



‘ you mean it were the settings that was wrong ‘



yes.



‘so it was all your imagination?’



yes.



‘i feel a bit better now’



sbm.

the bear looked puzzled, sat back and said,

‘told you, no one will listen if we are quiet,

they have all lost interest’



yes.



‘do they only listen to loud folk , those that  shout

and remonstrate’



seems so.



‘do you mind’ said that bear sympathetically.



no.



sbm.

the bear looked up and asked

have you written any thing today?



no, not much.



so then , no one will know

what has happened

today.



no.



sbm..

if you stop writing

about me , will i

disappear?



will we be so quiet

no one will notice us,

any more?



the bear considered, thought

it may be nice.



sbm.

it is a new little ribbon,

for you. i will tie here,

yet not too tight.



it has been a long time now.



yes, said the bear.

a long, long time.



sbm.

so i says to the bear when he woke,



hello,

i will be quiet today.



why, he replies.



my friend has died.



the bear says, then i shall be quiet too.



sbm

he said that we will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm.

( in respect for david alexander mcalden. my friend )

“carry your words on every day”

( initial words by wilfred. my friend. )

sbm.

so we discuss what people think of him,

and how now they will know he is as big

as a brown or grizzly bear, living here.



that his paws  big as plates flap and glide,

his mind is sharp and careful, yet i says that



i do not see him so, no

he says , i am in disguise.



sbm.

can you find the book among the favourites,

the one about survival in the cold, how to avoid

attacks from bears and other wildlife.



the book that makes you feel safe in bed,

because you are not there.



there are brown, black and a grizzled one you know,

each has a different response.



which will they think i am asked the bear?



ah, i says, they will never know, so will

have to hide.



the bear drank his tea, long and deep

and sighed.



sbm.

a difficult day, i checked on him several times

yet he was mortified. hid under the covers all day.



the bear says he did not mean to cause a fuss, he

maybe a little different. he is not good in groups.



not all are neurotypical. so i says to him just now,

any better today?



he looks at me quietly.



sbm.

possibly, yet his life is different to yours.



i have discussed it fully, yet it will remain

confidential.



he is still alseep and will remain so a while.

the bear is a private little soul, these things

affect him deeply.



his life is different to yours.



sbm.

the bear looked at me

when i got home, shocked.



so very ill, he said, how can that

be?



do not worry, i was already emotionally damaged



bear.



sbm.

the bear watched.  i see you are packing.



yes.



am i coming?



no.



why?



they would not understand.



sbm.

so bear says,

why aren’t i in the film,

i am your friend.



ah yes i says,

yet no one will

believe that.



sbm.

so i asks the bear

if the second bird got any.



he says no, the first

bird, ate it



all.



sbm.

seems it means many things, that

i do not wish to define,

here.



words came in the night,

the fears of the day

rattled.



i spoke to the bear, asked him

what will happen today?



he says he does not know.



sbm.

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.

back to the counting, how many

have there been, how many are left





still standing.



an issue for some, yet

we  amend the figures

here and move on.



lucky ones,  maths

divides and decimates

others.



yet it is the weave that holds

it all together, makes it strong.



be an example.



sbm.

changed your life?



it may have,

if only imperceptibly.



#definition, very slight, gradual, or subtle:

the imperceptible ***** of the road. See more.

#so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

i admire those i see  proactive, speaking
out even about little issues. it may get on your
nerves, you may like a quiet time.

it may be so slight, you did not notice.
yet.

the change can be so huge, that
he does not wish to live in this
world any more.

do you worry at the news too?

sbm.

thought nothing deep recently,

mostly tapped the new old typewriter,

the splendid machine,

wrote badly to friends, family.



walked the lane to see the flood

water,  sheep on higher ground now.



watched  films on those that flee,

suffer and drown.



just wept, pretty shallow

here really.



sbm.

knew he was there when the

ornaments vibrated.



looked down the garden,

saw him. we have waited

half a year, and now the forecast

is bad. he said.



i was filming john and mary

for a friend. it is his title.



this verse is named,

mary and john.



sbm.

it is a simple thing.



we hope for independance, privacy.



so we google, ask advice and listen.



take our time, let the thought wander,

heal ourselves.





we can even mend the  typewriter,

gifted by a friend, now there is a lovely

word.



soap cleans the ink away; the wind will

blow the water, dry the chimney,

clear the floors.



we have kept the old ribbon,

in a box.



sbm.