it is about a moment,

not pondering #too much,

if at all possible.



about finding things, #forgotten



about caring, restoring, showing

that things can be done,

kept for posterity.



so we wash and #mend it,

take photographs

#draw it



then show it to you.



sbm.

i heard you sing,

she heard you too.



above the noise of the day,

above the voices, she heard you.



it is enough to make us cry.



sbm.

they may be cheaper,

plain packaging, yet

the strength is there,

as is the ply.



sit neater on the holder,

work better, so

i shall continue

to buy them,



conserving cash.



sbm.

this is mary

she is part
of an ongoing
adventure
with john.

i will post
him another day.

look on my time
line, for a preveiw.

sbm.

yes in the summer the tourists come from the coed y brenin trail, they do not have bells

i buy my wood from the farmers’ supplies , it smells good

i have coal too i like a fire, it sounds nice. it is company
sbm.

they did not know she had
millions,
neither did she.

just collected one item
at a time, cared
fully

for each one of them.
catalogued
in eternally.

immer a immer
ever and ever.


they did not know.

she did not realise.

sbm.

we sit quietly here, fretting

over nothing in particular.



some bemoan their lot,

others get on with it willingly.



stop and have a cup of tea.



while others walk in #ice and mud,

while others #drown,

while others #starve.



without a #cup of tea.



sbm.

spring is on its way,

the ants are in the kitchen.



they will leave by easter

whenever that is. he said

it should be on the same day



each year; he is learned,

pronounced as two bits.



it is nice to see them back

this year. see the snowdrops

too.



sbm.

so we placed the work on censorship.



little boats,  welsh not, #bandaged

books and what nots.



they had been there

some time, yet were not noticed

i guess.



it may have been nose bleed that done

it. she censored it all, shoved in

a drawer, even the refugees

crossing.



i go to the ship now, and

i hear she threw the jazz band out



too.



sbm.

partially due to the weather,

state of the roads.



these are not just closed

due to snow, some

as cars slide, cause a commotion.



it is a steep hill, the crimea,

some call it a mountain



steeped in history.



plans change, while

the bus windows remain *****.



sbm.



nails



#notes and jottings

Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)



see also

boot dump incomplete blog

https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/

shelter here under this door?



no i do not mind the rain,

though it is all mud over there,

and may slide.





where do you walk?



to the end, and back again.



thank you.



sbm.

there is nothing quite like changing stuff,

you see he always came on tuesday, but then

we started writing that day, so he will come

on thursday each month.



to help me.



it wa a mucky day, cold with driving rain, he did

what he could until we both hid in the kitchen,

eating cake, and mending plates.



sbm.

mine were plain, smart and tailored.

viyella



hers were fancy with frills,  handed

down to me. mother said they would

not suit me.

gave them away.



i liked the flock, the crystal buttons.

i remembered them.



sbm.

pink lights possibly work

like the rose tinted spectacles.



everything looks warm and safe,

needing large curtains in sombre fabrics

to hide us. is this the first step, two red

bulbs from poundland, at two for a pound.



fold the empy box flat,

and made keep it for future

ideas on rosiness.



sbm.

this is the place of reverence, the face

of age. black the robes stand empty,

the shroud for peace that never

came.



they are starving.



sbm.

made lovely, left ot on the cooling

tray. all  night.



the wildcat came, left a faint smell,

yet did not eat it.



#breakfast.



sbm.

writing begun, no hashtags, no

double dots to guide us. the travel

guide begins.



trouble is, i don’t

go very far.



sbm.

sometimes, we wish we wrote different.

there is new home work, think we will

try a new venture, the travel writer.



not in verse, perhaps longer sentences,

with an air of mystery and danger. we

could have started here, with new ideas

today.



it is a small journey, most days

when it is fine, when there is time



from here to the #backlane



and back.



sbm.

these seem to be the thing

just now, a slight amusement.



do you like family language,

private jokes, stuff that

no one else gets?



some people do, and have

ordered  12 pieces water animal

small figure toy, colourful

crocodile A12 from china,

via ebay.



as yet there is no photograph.



sbm.

twelfth night day will be busy,

so it is packed up early.



it has not dropped this year,

it is growing

in a ***.



to go

back in the garden.



ready for next year.



hopefully.



sbm.

more than that when birds sing.



when the water lowers, seeps away.



twigs are left, shattered .



farmers out, later

neighbours chopping logs, stop to talk

of other days, bled from a photo.



still a solitary thing, except for a wren.



our minds may be the same.



sbm.

each day , each day.



a boy told me there is something

different each day.



i speak of the back lane, the

memory, a ritual as paper

and string, sounds like a

simple thing. yet it has



been different each day.



shall i write of it, or simply

take photographs?



sbm.

it is minus one outside today,

a big fire in dubai. i saw the

grave digger yesterday, i thimk

my friend is died.



they say to be happy, we are,

we stil see the pity of the world.



we cry.



she is right, we may not get what

we wish for, mainly we gets what we gets.



sbm.

it is a profound thing,

the paper the string.



the wind blows, all is safe inside,

somewhat dry mainly. so we

place the bunting well.



she  had rushed home, she

left the fish in the oven.



this  is not a metaphor.



sbm.

she gave me this. a new one.



it will not replace the old one,

yet will be loved.



as i loved you, and when i lost you,

kept it private, still do.



i miss you.



this is another gift.



sbm.

the plate is lovely, slightly fade

into other places, where bears ride

bicycles, where no one eats brown food,

no more.



it is a gift to know what the other

likes, and to like it yourself. the wind

blew through our house, while the sky

turned dark.



the plate is larger than usual.



sbm.

the bootlace came loose.

bending to tie, see the cow

standing.



the first lane to pentre.



then

the farmer , the calf.

all greet each other

then skip on the way.



some to the field, one down the back lane,

where water flows, where wild things grow.



it feels needed while sun shines, to see

all these things.



sbm

was possibly the turning point, that

changed a life, that emptied the cabinet.



be careful what you think, it may be horribly wrong,

then hearts will slide. so we sat in the window to watch

the world go by.



he said it was his first nose bleed, yet later found

that there had been  many others.



this looks like evidence.



sbm.

down the back lane there are puddles,

huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.



branches blown , creaking twigs while rain

stays off a while. she is a new walking partner,

quite fast, no bother.



minds empty ,we look at each other,

at sheep a while, still moving forward.



there are some now, that do not come.



this is the back lane, still

much the same.



sbm.

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.

the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.

the memory remains.

snowdrop’s  green

appears.

this is not bethlehem.

sbm.

having learned , the days  will come longer soon. the sounds

softer.

once the day is dawn, the door is open, face to the sky, all

comes well some days.



some days it does not, yet it still comes light. the falling

days end.



i have been invited to the village gathering this night.

i shall not go.



sbm.

the honesty is still growing,

water seeps in, while 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, to be cleaned

in the spring.

the rain will come again.



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.

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.



searching for meaning, it may be there is none.



loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.



sbm.

i trusted him like i trusted you, implicitly.



then she doubted, never trust anyone, she said

she had been watcing reality

tv.



then insidiously doubt crept in, as water spread

this weather.



i may be pleased to say that she, maybe

proved wrong this time.



he rang me.



also pleased with the spellling.



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.

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

it used to be quicker,
round the block, waving
to bob. he has a new car
now.

you should see it.

now we take photographs,
eat blackberries and wind
our mouths with damsons.

people bring chairs by the river,
we sit on logs, play fishing.

men come fishing,
ask, if we are from the village.

we say yes, think of the movies,
hitchcock, birds, & children.

we have the latter two,
we have the dog, we have
the days.

it will soon be january.

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.

should be put away.

i know the rules,

the diatribe with grief,

reoccuring.



we have seen the wheel spin,

slower now.



feeling seeps

into winter.



there were a few of them,

or was it two?



sbm.

the days get dark early, even just gone  three

yesterday.

the book looks boring ,the same entry

each day

descending.



all other mediocrities  cancelled,

including festivities.



the days are darker,

we gets thinner.



sbm.

and good manners.



no need to rush.



make your decision,

then perhaps,

politely let

civilians run away.



wait a little longer than one hour.



the lack of time creates disrespect, debate.



what happened to kindness, good behaviour?



sbm.

remembrance.

no one needs the books.

really



by bus each day 11.25 to arrive

by one. with gifts.



return on the 3.25, home late

to hide ready



to start again.



sbm.

drove home early, returned in the afternoon.



he saved me a sandwich. had a bit of a beard,

clean pyjamas.



we seemed happy.



sbm.

she took me home that afternoon.



had slept in the chair. the next day

he looked well, had eaten, and was reading

the newspaper.



they said he could come home soon.



sbm.

ignore the torch,

most of those places

have candles, and a



list for prayers.



sbm.

it seems we sing peace,

good will. if we sing at all.



while others vote

about dropping bombs

on people.







sbm.



( note – the innocents.)

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.



sing in silence and simplicity.



sing for those in  remembrance .



dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.



one voice breaks.

dark winter.



sbm.

carrying the book, gently,
i find that jesus
is off the wall again.

breeze from the doors
blows him and cobwebbed minds
away,
as i write the small book,
on black keys of words.

gentle here this morning,
sun dreams in,
quiet in all the rooms,
and arms held high,
i come into the morning,
with string and sealing wax.
sbm.

there is  a need to pace about, wave the paper,

move the arms. need to pause and       counter

act. if this reading thing                      will work.



maybe moving eliminates the standing       still,

precisely that  leads to a self concious       pose.



the need to read is ready. rehearsals held each day

focus                                                     on the oak tree.



alongside reading then, is a little light excercise



plus a method of solidarity.



sbm.