can you make coffee, make
it last two hours? can you

talk?

when there is solitary, when
thoughts are enough to blend,
when all you thought you needed
was supplied, it takes encouragement
to talk.

hear yourself chat on and on
about nothing in particular,
or is it something, i can’t remember.

i am not sure that talking says anything.

really.

learn to care.

sbm.

some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.

others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.

some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.

the photograph.

this does not mean
i love you.

sbm.

talk about the weather, talk
about the rain. cosy. we cleaned
arranged the house, until it stopped.

walked out, bare feet, looked down
felt the wet slate, watched the snails.

damped our hair, to rearrange on entry
into the cleaner rooms. yet no matter
how hard we work, there are still

cobwebs.

sbm.

again, i reach the upper room.

floor teetered, me the cabinet maker,
offfered another case, one of mine choice.

she had lovely hair, said the space was moving.

so it was, betwixt a little crowding there,
wilfred owen, his letters and wooden steps,
to reach further up.

below they serve liver and onions, which
i am told is very tasty,

sbm.

he suggested that it was too nice
a day to work,. i did not mind.

had two good days with him,a small
child growing.

it was warm, a busy day, with folk
on holiday.

i tell you it is a pretty
place, i wonder if you
understand what that means.

this does not have a title,
as far as i can see,
does not really say much.

really.

sbm.

you know those few days so busy,
much to do and eating sweets in the rain.

when all is small boys and peacocks.

the door groans, it may be a creepy
place, yet all the hedges are good.

all goes quiet again, so smell the perfume.

note the jasmine growing and know
that some things come again.

sunday.

sbm.

maybe not such a good idea,
it may feel fenced in, surrounded.

yet we lean on it, dicuss the time of day,
avoiding price on fish.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of burying. he borrows electricity
a while, while i tidy up, hang out washing.

i miss my company,  went out walking.

no one came this time.

sbm.

may be the contrast here,
the national library stairs.

guided to the cupboard,
the collection dusted, labelled,
named as important. emptied, it
is the proof that nothing can be
rare.

nothing is now something, quality
of non existence, held us in a
moment, then we moved on blindly
looking for something,

as we are bound.

sbm.

did you know that
i am scared of reading,
in public.

i pretend to be
famous, it does not work.

i tell you i stand here
before you, shaking, you
who encouraged me.

i like to be quiet, only
spoke
when you asked the question.

not sure why i came.
i think you invited me?

sbm.

it happens to most of us,
some times, other times,
seem good, almost boring.

it knocks us sideways,
even assunder. i asked you
to carry me.

yet, you left me outside
in the rain. it has been
like this for days. wet.

most of us get over it.

use an umbrella.

sbm.

learning designers, two yesterday,
alongside history of weaving,
scouring the wool or fulling?

we have many questions. we
have the excitement about the
wool museum, pleasure for the chair
given secretly.

i was at work.

it is a gift, we say this over.

i think of middle mill, the field
and flowers.

we all think of many things, best
to write some down carefully.

sbm.

warm day, dry . we need to post
the letters. wander down among
the houses. well kept, small front
gardens.

this is new look, how long has
it been there. i know about this,

look, i am right.

it is a good scooter. i will
watch you and
gather grass seeds, as i did
when i was small.

i am still not very big.

sbm.

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, seen the art work.

this morning is like autumn, though
still in july, softness lowering.

i am so sorry, i forgot to ask
about your trip.

sbm.

i was asked a couple of weeks,
ago if i looked out for the lorries,
would i describe.

no, not any more.

yet, the bridge is small and narrow,
seems room for two to pass.

looked up, saw everyone watching
the big blue lorry stuck. still.

time passed, onlookers lost interest,
while gradually the lorry moved.

left the bridge. a coach came next.

a narrow bridge. there is another
in machynlleth.

sbm.

we have been there while it is open.

we went there when it was closed. when
no one tidied, while the apples grew.

we sat the geat chairs in all weathers.

now it is open again, and all the flowers
grow.

cywain

sbm.

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.

is therapeutic, some say. depends on the
size and bumps.

there was a gentle breeze going, then
the sun came through.

saw it shine, move into the hedge,
we stopped mowing to watch.

found the wheelbarrow bound
with weeds, cleaned and rescued.

the robin came. we thought of
how quickly you died.

there is rain today.

sbm.

there are tiny, tiny plants
in conwy high street, for sale.

alpines.

folding the washing, out
came a tiny tiny beetle,
placed on the dining table,
the way to its freedom.

gaze at tiny tiny things,
the world becomes another
space.

this is precious.

sbm.

takes us back to castle walls.

there is free parking there, you know,
just above the council one at probably
£4 a day. This is not a bad charge, is
cheaper than some places here.

we did not stay, wanted to be home.

followed the trail of black feathers,
saw those birds nesting, watched the train.

thought of you.
drove home.

sbm.

forgot to come, to smile
for me. i shall have to change
the label next week, it does
not really matter.

this week or the next, it will
all work out, until it does not.

some feel it is a failure, yet
i think it as a gift each week,
received gladly, clean, crisp
packed nicely, labelled.

with a smile.

sbm.

the cure is not fat bacon, it is
the genes. gently move forward,
prompting all good behaviour, accepting
reality. it happens to most of us some
way.

three to ten days or more, with light
medication will help. as would new bedding,
deleting beige and floral lampshades.

how we laughed, bought unecessary items,
beat the plague.

without fat bacon.

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 laid a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm.

shown me. i touched
those little hats.

knitted, note the
decreasing on the crown,
a tidy pattern.

a random change
of colours there.

touch, to feel the softness
the quality, it is a special
yarn.

only three ***** left, one
pink, two blue,
both reduced in price.

wish you had made them.

sbm.

while all is behaving nicely
around us, some place it is not.

think of this and feel lucky,
fortunate in your lot. be glad
that some know the rules.

it can be an honour, the honesty,

i met her the other day,
so upset
by peoples greed, need to hurt
each other.

we shall meet for coffee.

meanwhile , some receive awards.

sbm.

is an abreviation for a little place,
a town with pollarded trees, an avenue.

pleasant, the word springs to mind,
and colours. she wrapped my old red
trowel in gardening news, and
pasted cuttings on the wall.

the sun was out and while this may
be an issue, we covered our heads,
carried on.

museum past. locked behind glass,
50p for elders, free to locals,
we overpaid, talked of may bugs,
talked of most things.

a day out in llani.

sbm.

so i thought, yet time indicates habits,
caring for others even the inanimate.

worrying over squirrel that stole
the chicken grain, grave danger
of losing life.

yes, it is my turn now, and this
includes all of lifes little
idiosyncrasies
and difficult spellings.

typing comes hard when the cat
paws the bed, and thinks it her time too.

so it is, we must all have a turn, and refer
to the thesaurus regularly.

then we will learn another word
for it.

sbm.

solitude is usual , even welcomed.

trips out reveal another state. the mind
and all travelling excites, while the horse
waits for the grist by the mill, i await
silence.

again.

these are the old sayings, new happenings.

he asked me a question, then i replied.

endlessly. it may be a gift?

sbm.

some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.

this one remained bright,
even glaring, a free sample
some years back.

others we get from the pound
shop, mostly costing one pound,
a waste if we get the wrong fitting.

they pop regularly, it is to do
with the electrics they say.

we put them in bottles and
jars.

sbm.

having often like old clothes,
have bought small dresses, with
no one in reach.

hung, they look pretty, the
experience helps now in family
business, and how busy the
family is.

took time out yesterday, bought
small dresses, in the rain.

it is a small family affair.

sbm

wake up to see the shy pink.
clouds.

so 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,
they did not seem to know,

when really they should.

the rugs are made of rag.

sbm.

no time to do anything,
enjoy anything
if we are busy
winding the clock,
watching.

running
to stand still.

pat says.

thankyou

sbm.

so now the green house
is white, even the top,
where i could not reach.

he used a ladder.

we spoke of nettles how
i like the height yet
not fond of falling on
them.

he had to crush them to reach,
yet we agreed they will
soon grow again.

meanwhile, the clouds gathered,
in the evening we had rain.

sbm.

concluded in the night
with flapping, hiding,
retreating under white.

do you remember the green house,
mostly also white, i do
understand
that may be finished today.

there was a lull, no
steam left here after that
happened.

he had told me that
it all takes time

to heal.

sbm.

napery
neɪp(ə)ri/
noun
noun: napery

household linen, especially tablecloths and napkins.
so they were, many boxes, opened and unpacked all day,
in the heat. yet we had the big fan going. the mill

always a cooler place to be.

it is an old fashioned word, not found
in the urban dictionary, remembered.

so doyleys, chairbacks, arm protectors
for chairs are all in stock now, whilst
i had a very satisfactory day, actually.

though my feet did hurt by five.

sbm.

the word came involutarily,
others were stuck, yet i knew
them to be beautiful, and
so they are.

powers and dominions,
virtues, re search them.

it was cool there,
we learned about protection,
quiet spaces.

there is an heirarchy, yet
some words remain faultless.

some need to be remembered.

angel.

sbm.

is hard this weather,
sloping garden, heat
and headache.

robin comes, alarming,
the nest nearby, we push
and shove the thing, watch
the swallow.

drag bags of cuttings,
look at the graves. rest

a while.

strange how the mood lifts,
this must be good
therapy.

some how.

sbm.

the start of things, the making
of the welsh cape.

tapestry.

we have none here, we
have a blanket, washed
and faded. we started
the research and found
he lived near the thing
he wanted.

he had not known
the proximity.

she tried the coat,
too stiff
too heavy, weighed
her down.

there is a sadness here now.

sbm.

light bulbs and cotton hankies .

all things are useful, bulbs

bring light , denote ideas,

good intentions, spent,

collected.



cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,

yet those with nylon, stretch the skin

resulting in red and soreness.



shy away from dangerous commodities,

use the best, those tradtional artefacts

which are gentle on your soul, bring light.



wipe your nose clean.



sbm.



today we have added notes for your interest.

~ cathedra ~

he thought
it was not the centre
of the universe.

titanic.

came by chance.

i think you will
find it is sir.

it is the little things
that make it so.

the tears of all my life,
with yellow.

the colour of the day..

st davids.

sbm.

comes round again, the radio

announcer says it is good, that

i am awake early.

well done.

we saw magnolia yesterday, blooming,

black grass and dogwood.

yet i shall like to the see

the orange trees, smell the fruit

descending. eat all that there is.

i had to go.  i missed the train.

sbm.

the worst is over,
until the next thing begins.

you think me quiet, heartless
or not think of me at all, now.

i have sorted things, done the necessary,
yes. the worst is over.

i expect.

sbm.

a handy hint is the furthest place,
people like to be near. people may prefer
moving forwards, not looking back too much.

things go round, rebound. it is a lovely
journey, through the mountain range, glory
for writing,

travel journals, while all the while, we think
we travel the other way.

so we did.

sbm

pass through on the way,
it is a pretty place,
if you think so.

in town
the car park was full,
people were shopping.

all felt happy if you think so.

later he was full of woe, which
is valid, if you think so.

sbm.

when the horse when down, when you read glyn hughes?

the field is flowers now, grasses,one patch
of purple thistles

it is said most things have feelings, so

we walk the lane, wild now, watched the
water beetles, swallows dip.

memories crowding in, i talked too much.

there were several visitors, some picnicked
by my gate.

then, the kettle broke.
i will remember you.

sbm.

have come from london, to
stay a while. i remember you
brymbo man.

profanities in town caused
ears to bleed, and where it was
a market town, now it all all
charity and coffee shops. places

change, while the egyptian things
remain so fine.

we gasped at the empty space.

sbm.

having trouble getting back.

difficulty finding words, of the
simple type, to type.

spell out the consequences,
of an easy life.

is it criticism, or a general sensitivity,
which abounds, confounds the
smallest heart.

she says we should not handle bats.

sbm.

early, the crowd came to see

yellow, the famous arch .

laburnum.

i came to see the kitchen garden,

seeds growing, chives flowering.

humble plant sprout small mauve flowers,

bees come early.

yesterday mostly yellow and mauve then.

bodnant garden.

sbm.

we left early to visit

clear pools of water,

the mountain sloped.

here we wandered,

among sheep.

watched the bug

glide the water,

****** down

the fish leap.

storm past, this

was a day of sunshine.

we are good friends.

we got better.

so it goes.

sbm.

we talked of chickens, the coops, the wire,

he

brought me a specimen of lime mortar, held

with horse hair from the old wall.             we

placed it, discussed lime,             the burning,

and carried on.

made a pointy thing,                  will burn our

irons in the fire.

day of industry, company,                 winds

bent the rest of us, so we

followed the road to find

hedd wynn.

the light is coming through.

sbm.

so you think i wear a cotton dress,

while all round is stormimg,

you think that people on boats are lovely

when it is a cruise ship, waving.

what do you think when passengers

are drowning?

this is not cunard, this is not a

myth.

sbm.