check the task, ready the mind.

let thoughts mellow and compute

nicely.  we will be all ready on the day.

we have a plan, whilst gratitude guides

us. nothing is necessary, except

collars and socks.

some will understand,

while others will not.

it was a hay loft, converted

now, the upper room.

listen.

sbm.

what about this list,

to do it before you die,

well as she said, you probably

can’t do it after. some may disagree -

another belief. we try not to judge,

yet that  bucket was not worth

five pound, so i offered two.

old,  too enamoured to be

used for rhubarb.

i shall search for another.

there is an old galvanised bath

in the garden.

sbm.

faith in the garden,

that some one will care

tend, the beds, grow rhubarb,

again. a crown is cheap on ebay.

they have made raised beds,

left proper pots littered,

here and there,

an inspiration to some

who pass. a disappointment

for those who seek perfection,

head for disppointment.

buy a little tin for seeds

to keep them dry, buy an old bucket

ready for the fruit patch.

clover.

sbm.

needing refreshment in oswestry,

later rather than sooner,

crept up the chalk painted

staircase, seems to work

well, in this case.

i note the dstressed nature

of the furniture.

this place.

having regular coffee,

a fruit scone will

certainly do,

i listen to the server, who

clasping the china teapot,

tells us revelations

of those who live, who divorce

and warm the ***.

i have to say that

the scone was lovely.

later i bought a potting bench.

sbm.

feel you are failure, look

at what you have done.

look to the seeds, the growth,

read desiderata and know

we are all mostly much

the same.

sbm.

small path, a right of way,

for me, to go down the back lane.

it is all forget me nots,

i wrote of it before.

i had bought 1000 seeds, black

and tiny,

from ebay, wondered who counted

them.

he is a farmer, will strim

them soon, so i gently pulled

a plant. the ground gave easily,

moles had been tunneling.

i will forget thee not.

he is a farmer.

sbm.

managing?  knowing that it will come clear,

gradually, carefully, piece on piece.

they do say, a little help

et cetera, they do say such

a lot of things.

help spurred me on to

sort and tidy, categorise

again.

they do say that it is *******,

yet placed in tidy piles, it

becomes most attractive.

they even like the photographs.

sbm.

tides are higher now,

flooding the paths.


he walked the mud,

bringing the footsteps back to us.


we mop the floors, when the rain stops.


if you leave the boots to dry,

the earth will knock off, neatly.


there was a partial eclipse, the tides are high.

he was a gardener.

sbm.

he was a gardener. sbm.

thread your way through,

place the ends for the birds.

they ask nothing.

sbm.

[ re written]

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independent air, profound words,
from those who care.

sbm.

the frost came on the field

as the light failed. later

it warmed again.

it is a small garden,

that creates conversation,

hints at a deeper soul.

why mark your face with signs

and colours, look straight on.

look at the pleasure of a little garden.

sbm.

or did you mean mouth.


did you mean you do not like me,

like my garden, i do not understand.


i wrote moth, yet misunderstood,

maybe a typo, yu are good at those,

and miss spellings.


is it because fingers fly, that

we think of the content, not the making.

time is the essence, while

moths stay quiet.

sbm.

not that one is tired or needing rest.

this is words on the biblical sort.

do you think now, or simply move

on , repeating?

the installation is changed, the description

is many. these are the same twigs.

repeating.

sbm.

i wrote of blood, yet did not share it much.

you may think we share our hidden thoughts,

yet some remain. it is a pretty day, with a light frost

and stories of the northern lights.

we walked a while yesterday,

he was visiting his sister.

i came home,  fingers bled.

sbm.

smoothing the wrinkles i think

of another time. how reasonably

priced they are, such a usefull item,

to protect the bed.



those that sleep there can

rest in the knowledge that

all is well covered, there will be

no shame, no hardship.

remember the days of rolling

an

old one down the stairs, tying

with ineffective string to await

the council collection.



reorder the thing, much better

now to protect your assets.

i tuck in the corners, and remember

that this is monday.

sbm.

during the evening after tea,

we wondered who had invented the chair,

so that we can sit, so, and sew.



perhaps the rock was too hard,

nothing to support the back,

properly.



period drama would be

oddly different without the chair.



the conversation moved on to

pumpkins, these days, and

noises made by porcupines.



seems Barry went to see the

capybara too.



sbm.

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter.  bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.



all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear  birds sing.



sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.



sbm.

after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important

meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove

to see the fish, and met the capybara.



who was surprised?  its hair all needing drawing,

nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so

quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood

alone, as did i.

the little capybara, there.



i took no photograph.

sbm.

was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground,
it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we
mended things, with love and string.

it is a challenge, 52 , to even think and google
meanings.

many types, immeasurable, not three nor for all
of us. yet those of us who do, may trust blindly,
childishly love our toys, cherish home, hold
memory.

i looked up, that does not mean i love you.

narcissus.

sbm.

the old blanket is new,
a find from brynkir mill,

the new blanket is old,
have had it a while.

"I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

pinc, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

pinc is welsh for pink"

sbm.

some people seeking perfection,
their dream in music
decline.

have their own reality,
ideals, unreasonable
requests.

we found the shade,
missed any remarkable
rainfall, ate the cherries,
at the royal welsh.

no are no demands,
no disappointments.

these are the days,
a repetition.

sbm.

how small.



how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.





salt in the wind.

©sbm

there is a laybye , the field so pretty
to park by, the gate to lean.

will you report the fire?
no i stopped to admire.

i had seen the stack before, the logs
laid neatly, all was ready then,

now your flames attract me, to
talk of lambs and springtimes.

it is from the storm , tinder dry,
too hot to stand by,
i can feel it from here.

on my return all was ash and steaming,

we waved.



sbm.

look quietly, see a new.

cellular memory, let be, and learn,

that small birds fly up.

sbm.

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite

fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.



have done this a while, got the rhythm,

the style of dressage and deportment

for one of our station.



i don’t have a badge, so

look with confidence, courage

so they know.               i quickly

fold tidily, imagine i am japanese

and check my hips in the showroom mirror.



i work on sundays, except

when i go on thursday.



so being monday, now

i change the bed.



carry on with the domestics.



sbm.

it is the moth that speaks.
the jaw holds the teeth.
..

in a letter to a friend,
never written, never
said, sad, it is impossible.

to explain. there will be khama,
guilt, ridden over mountains,
over years. tis tough is guilt.

the back bedroom, hankies
folded ready, in every room,
in pockets now gone musty.

the pottery is dusty.
i have another life.

i have a new letter.

sbm.

mine, also
has
become a stranger.

how strange.

i often do not sleep,
so have decided
it is not a
problem.

there is always
another world
out there,
that is not ours.

i like mine.

i like your writing.



sbm

while all things have changed.

rubbers are now a derivative of oil,
latex still drips from trees for certain usage.

we talked on god, death and whitsun,
on sunday. we banged the glass, together.

it broke.

there is an island near the holy head.

st michael.

sbm.

i shall be off line a while,


while



all is well, all well.

©sbm

comment, been asked to write?

has it all overtaken the urge
to say the things you hope,
the words you think.

one is important as the other.

i told him that i do not get
angry as expected, try to do
my best.

told him about the situation,
why i cannot drink
hot chocolate, now.

yet i shall comment soon,
and just maybe
try the drink again.

(holding nose).

sbm.

except when we are not, except
when we forget. or we are not
notified.

there are lists and diaries, notes
and reminders, days set aside for certain
tasks. it has to be done, when
there is only one
to do it.

yet, oh the shame, the horror
if we miss a trick, or lose the
page.

eventually we will know,
that none of it matters.

even though it all does.

now.

sbm.

( prompted by 52.60. )

. the timetable .
Posted on February 19, 2015

is on the front bedroom wall,
a reminder of other days, and latin.

homework, was a separate issue.

seems we will return, see those places.

she says it is all changed, so have
i . seems like another life, as i
stand back.

we shall go to the museum.

sbm.

more than we can write. erase
and unpick the seams. words tarry,
waver and leave this place, this room,

scuttle back into corners. sweep the house clean,
cross the words and know that when the time is right,
they will come again, dripping from fingers,
folded , torn, photographed in plenty.

wondered about misspelling, maybe
missed the point?

sbm.

possibly not, yet the deed was done,
the sword was plastic. raised we
engaged in sword, in word play.

always the actor he fine tuned
the pokes and prods, wounded me
a little. apparently i am self healing,
did not need to fall and groan so.

arise sir grandma to fight another
day. Yet i have given up that struggle,
i actually know that regeneration
is not endless.

i may not have a knighthood.

i have a gift.

sbm.

come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.

one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load

creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.

at six twenty seven, the music
ends.

sbm.

it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.

a long time.

they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.

one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .

we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.

it is empty a long time.

sbm.

was a larger thing, not world news, happily,
not somethinhg to chew over.

amongst the colours, the gifts, the tiny cup,
cracked, collectable, among the people
at the friday club is friendship, a bigger
thing.

although many of us like smaller items,
we have grown to know that close friends
are a quite very big, important thing in a
life. small life.

sbm.

crystals underfoot. hardship
lays in pages.

white scars scattered .

look at the world, salt tastes
bitter.

gritted teeth.

soul in subsidence

dry on skin, crusted.
tears fall.

blood.

sbm.

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

the robin came down as he cleared the ground,
all red chest, pretty eyes.

we discussed the earth, rich now, without
the stones. we could grow potatoes as they
did here in the war. i have the photograph.

these are fortunate times, while have disliked
the tuber since the flu struck.

there has been a lot of it this year here.

we plan a pretty little greenhouse, all white
with embellishments, red geraniums.

the robin watched, i am told he will like mealworms.

sbm.

there may be positive thinking,
the day after the cleaning.

after all, one’s problems
aint so bad when we hear of others.

it was hoped the electricity
was off, seems they still
use it in bangor.

this is shocking.

is it really all about shopping?

i think it is more about friendship,
and carings.

it may be said now, that
they do supply prawns.

sbm.

small items for sewing and other notions.
ribbons wound carefully secured with a
nice topped pin, not the ordinary.

it should be so, or sew.

buttons in bottles, and jars,
safed for the occasion, with
occasional poppers, oft worded
press fasteners unlike hooks,
and eyes,known as hooks and eyes.

the word appears in chaucer’s
canterbury tales, appears here,
too.

haber dashers have patron saints
just like all the other trades,
alongside worshipful companies.

at the mill , all is tidy now.

sbm.

. the charm .


passed over by accident, the
thing occured naturally,
without clerics. without beatitude.

given by friendship, yet
piety slowly eroded.

they come now with learning,
holding large words, a different language.

the charm now gone,
perhaps they did not need it any more.

once again, it is said, that,
they speak latin.

sbm.

a family name with two parts,
yet what it has to do with
guns , heaven knows.

there is a hotel designed
around that shape, apparently.

looks out to sea.

some times one wonders about the fuss,
and worry, when.

it is only a privet hedge.

sbm.

cold on the beach, sharp winds,
no ferry in yet.

to set the valley,
low between hills,
and blossom.

the sun shone
deep upon us,
drifting conversation,
and we warmed.

we warmed with rabbits,
new butterflies
drying wings,
softly unfolded.

this is the green valley,
where pain recedes
with the importance
of nothing at all.

sbm.

the sun was out yesterday,

all day.



logs stacked, sticks sorted and tidied,

categorised in various piles, those

for keeping, some for disposal.



relocate the little bird house, robins

wait as does the cat nearbye.



in and out avoiding neighbours,

no time for chat.

finish the outdoor painting.

fall into bed early.



next morning the solar lights still

flashing, the sun shone all day.



sbm.

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those the rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.



some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.



i like things private.



sbm.

has  hard winter come at last,

does one rhyme this, write icy

blast, or simply carry on

the usual way, he said it is progressive,

it is just the way we think.



early, clearing  ashes, prepare

a fire with three pages, sticks and odd

ends of packaging. the better coal

with one small log does the trick.



the fire in the other room stays in

all night no problem, with a guard.



the fire officer came yesterday

to protect us in our beds.



today we wrap the winter

gifts.



some say spring has come.



sbm.