do you know that it is june,

and that it seemed to have come quickly,

while we weren’t looking.

they say it will be a very wet and windy

day for north wales.          i live there.

yet i have floral  cotton dresses ready

for the sun.         which will come.

we had a lovely roast dinner sunday,

the last day of may.

sbm

defines the mass, not the counting.

weight of notes, concerned her, no

looking up, she slightly apologised, nearly,

I went outside to the cash machine,

where she probably wanted me to be, really.

then buttons,  joy to spend the day working,

styles and colours.

i do like the feel , 50 grammes each time.

the comment on tedium, returned with memories

of grandmas box, phobias, trouser buttons,

linen with shanks.

I  have found the  buttonhole scissors.

sbm.

there were no chives, so we hunted for ferns.

they are everywhere here, we wanted something
in particular, me with my green trowel, gardening
apron.

she was coming up the lane, head down,
i waited. a steep *****.

on looking up she smiled, and chatted a while.

did you know him? she asked, told me he had
died suddenly.

she went on her way, she has moved house
you know.

we went on looking for a fern, and
found one.
sbm

envy the rural living.

make some.

walk the dunes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mine, in honour
walk the place in mind.

sbm.

i said it were a lovely day, i did not mean the weather.

i talk about the feeling, the mood that did not change, all day,

little tasks that please. planting chives in treacle tins, ironing pyjama pants,

and cotton handkerchiefs.

he warned me the rain would come, and when it did

heavy, we tucked in tight here, enyoyed the darker

green.

then, the rain will stop.

sbm.

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older.    we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

sbm.

yes, we bought them.

pale green hooks,

for the greenhouse

walls. it is wooden you know.

i will hang the panamas up,

ready for hot weather, and for

effect.

we arrived in town early, waited

outside until she opened.

had seen them before, yet too

ill to decide.

we used those screws that had

been covered white some how,

seemed to suit the task.

we would continue the painting,

yet  wake to rain.

sbm.

that  amaze and delight,

the

abundance of colour,

plants, perfume of history.

it is the sounds among us, the

peering into the poem. it

is the gathering streams

that swell and please.

home grown veg,

then pause to watch

the tadpoles, insects, all

small creatures delight.

it is a large garden.

sbm.

he came from another country,

has another accent.

he spent quite a lot

of money, his card

worked.


we all wear socks.


sbm.]

can be a difficulty, having

to say that we do not know.

that we have to count, check,

count again.

that we get distracted, disturbed,

by other matters, come back,

miscount.

it is not some thing we can google,

so we have lists, lines and rulers.

when all is done, we sign and date

the work away.

then start again.

sbm.

talk about chucking it down,

we wondered what the noise

was.

heard gwil running in , no time

to stop for logs. the cat came

streaming.

rushed to the window, to take

photographs.

talk about chucking it down.

sbm.

friends come in differing sizes.

come with shells, black feathers

and fur. some come

bearing gifts.

some in paper, come unseen,

a feeling.

did you realise that

the wrapping was part

of the gift?

sbm.

notice the gorse growing,

the quarry redundant, is all

zip wires and bounce below.

i have a new photograph,

you look very sweet and handsome.

you were not at home,

so i chatted to your mother.

used to vist that quarry

you and I to watch the train.

tourists come.

45337

sbm.

there are many numbers,

most are broken, a few retained.

i have 43. crushed the others

while walking.

heard the cuckoo call, louder and

louder, felt the sun, thought of africa,

from where they come.

there is a new path, around the lake,

by the power house. it may hum,

yet it is a gentle place.

we kicked about there all day.

sbm.

we has an immersion, when on for just half an hour,

we has hot water. enough for a bath. left on longer it gurgles,

heard downstairs.

all night it goes quiet, and i could bathe, clean the house,

wash the socks,

and have change left over.

a red light. while we are used to it, others may wish for better.

winter fires. the back boiler kicks in.

sbm.

so tired that you could

fall gently onto soft grass

and sleep?

that nothing seems sensible any more,

no space exists around you?

will your legs still carry you along?

sometimes is best to stop a while,

think on the situations of others.

listen to the words of history, the stories

of others, then up from the lawn, to wonder.

sbm.

note –
wherewithal
ˈwɛːwɪðɔːl/

little red sailed
schooner, anchors late.

when i saw this word,
mast, for some obscure
reason, i imagined some one
tied to it, hair blowing
with the wind.

i must be tired
or delirious.

sbm

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothng is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

sbm.

winding wool is mindless

she said, well maybe madam,

yet look at the lovely machine,

all red and cream plastic, that

winds in a way we cannot do

by hand.

look at my work which evolves

while working this and thinking.

i folded her goods tidily, packed in a

nice paper bag, said nothing

except mere politeness and niceties.

then got on with winding.

mindfully.

sbm.

it is a pleasant place, along the valley.

the hill stands proud as always,

green, blessed with blue bells.

park by the castle, walk through the station,

early.

meeting, small kisses, food with

friends.

conwy is in conwy.

sbm.

old pots are cheaper, chipped,

more attractive in an old place.

we shared them.

plants are more attractive, here

in this old place, run by the man

in the large house.

we shared them.

it was a lovely day, we shared it.

sbm.

it is not his tunnel, and he has

not googled it. the rest of us, mostly

google everything, to find a result.


she talks to me nicely, when i ask

her most things. astonished

when she does not know.


he will get it fixed in rochdale

i went there once

for sunday lunch

on monday.


never mind the predictions,

wait and see.


sbm.

(notes: - a bad hand refered to, when holding a sandwich.)

move, leave a trace, a gesture.

make a song about the things

that worry.

use your best voice to call

and care.

most things leave a mark, then

the next day we wash and clean.

even then something is missed.

the mark is made.

sbm.

at sea, it is a squall. i watched

a programme all about dream fish.

we need none.

we have dreamed a while, made a little

garden house, while mrs ciano is safe indooors.

cosy, she is by the old books

of course.

where else would she be,

still the rain pours, a draught

at the window.

sbm.

during the day, sun shining,

is this spring, or summer

now? clearing the debris,

painting it white.

birds gather, as the

radio plays.

we dance in the greenhouse.

sbm.

mrs ciano is home, well one of them.

some could say this is a forgery, yet

she was invited, mrs ciano is multiplied,

the answer is clear, may the fourth be

with you today.

we will empty the basket, put our things

back in place. mrs ciano is at home,

today.

sbm.

http://mrs-ciano.weebly.com/

was at the national library of wales,

you know, that big building in aberystwyth,

just after bow street. they have a red carpet on the stairs,

men standing at the base, to guard, to help you.

tie the books in cases, stare at the black book  again.

mrs ciano is labelled, and no one looks at her.

there is a castle here, though no one thinks so.

sbm.

we will not have blankets,

if there are none, take the old

rags, layer , stitch and stitch

by hand till fingers bleed.

work along the coast

with thread and diligence.

gather wools, layer carefully,

we shall have warmth this winter.

we will have quilts to share.

sbm

there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.

water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.

lately we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.

sbm.

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

bettter. or worse?

so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.

she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.

there is a lot going on.

sbm.

i searched for the ravages of time,

it seems a phrase i have not used recently.

it seems i ought to keep quiet,

and get on with it any way.

there are enough disturbances in the world,

without another.

butterflies.

sbm.

storm predicted, wind swept, the visitors came,
some to sail boats, while others to
pass the time of day, pleasantly.

we shall shelter from the rain

sbm.

so if the seat is not level,

we slide.

if the leaves grow,

we can hide.

quiet. see the paths wind,

the grass grow.

talk about everything.

sbm.

slight mist, the window this

morning shows a softer

green. since the rain.

the oak has started,  new

flowers come through the grass.

while feeding birds, we watch the

smaller things.

gradually all things

grow.

sbm.

knows the wind will change,

the birds will fly.

while i know nothing.

sbm.

she read the leading
line over.

reactions, speak louder.

so when there are none
look for a meandering way.

the lane is long,
now there is no escaping,
only one way to the end.

a little conversation
never goes amiss.

there are times
during demolision
one gets bruised.

the play never ends.

sbm.

men in the village,

are older now.

the moth returns.

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

i shall be off line

a while.



while all may

be well.



sbm.

it is a gift, the friend ship, the kiss

on each cheek with out avoidance.

it may seem continental, yet we are

dolgellau. it is a meeting place, yes,

near the church. there are similarities,

yet this is not a metaphor.

we met at ten, talked of family,

one hour led to two, and overstepped

the parking time.

later in the garden, i thought of you.

i cut the paths and thought of you too.

it is a gift.

sbm.

becomes larger as time moves on.

it started early, with greek poetry,

the radio, which played all day.

he says i like a challenge, and

can certainly rise to the occasion.

cutting in proves concentration, happily

painting everything white.

geese flew over, ann messaged to

say her swallows returned.

the day moved slowly, and i find

the memories are not as you may think.

i have new ones.

sbm.

are suggested quickly, no time taken to

utter the words. yet. it will take a while

to order, to plant, it will all be lovely,

unless bitter words entice despondency,

low spirits from a loss of hope, of courage.

we shall carry on until the paint runs out,

then we shall clean the old rugs., order two hundred

bluebells.

he often has good ideas.

sbm.

yesterday was sky and small dresses,

all work, some worry due to tiredness.

yesterday the green house came, different

than expected, yet a treat none the less.

sometimes we miss the hyphen, the proper

format, we are not as expected either. yet

we does our best, sits in the suns, and plan

to hang dresses in the trees.

the sky is pinc this morning.

not a typo, pinc is welsh for pink,

as i have said before.

sbm.

drive it one spring

morning early before the traffic

starts.

i have done it many

times before , know the road,

villages, the pretty bends.

taliesin, bow street, clarach.

yesterday a sea fret, misted trees,

added edge ; visual delight.

i like the road to aberystwyth.

sbm.

they say, and close the stores.

it is complicated, to do

with floor space and employees

rights. we had chocolate eggs,

worked hard, let our arms loose.

warmer now, the sun shone,

peple came, visited, smiled,

fondled the wool, spoke of age

and weaving. he said there

were many looms in his day.

he is eighty eight, he told me

many times.

sbm.

the cobwebs away, yet not all of them.

impossible, an old house. there would be

time, if it was national trust where all is

care and cleaning, though i have heard

they leave some now for authenticity.

I imagined it would cost forty five, yet it was sixty,

until the speciall offer.

here we have washed and dusted,

spring cleaned, had time for the garden.

again.

it is a nice place

here.

sbm.

of course you will, some times.


why not, we cannot think of everything all the time.


it is a little flower, shallow rooted,

that spreads lovely. have planted some in pots,

while down the path, will add a touch of blue.


sometimes we just stand and look.


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.

once a hayloft, above the stable.

this was a meeting place. we cleaned

the upper room ready, removed winter

detroitus, hummed latin verbs, generally

was busy.

all is washed and cleaned ready.

everyone is refering to easter,

sun day april fifth.

sbm.

the jaws hold the teeth,

tells the story.

there are bits under nails, no

matter how hard the scrub, how

hot the water, strong the soap.

varnish over, yet the truth

comes out.

sbm.