the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

sbm.

in a fit of peak,
we decided, yes.

the soap in is the
bathroom, ann

as is the amputee
swimming doll
free.

my gifts are still unpacked,
i did, then packed them
back again, to enjoy
today.

the garden is in my mind,
as are al the other delights
we saw, ann.

me must go
back again.

thank you, ann.



sbm.

St Tydecho with capital
letters, they say he came
from Cornwall here.

it was nice to sit quiet, watch
the shaking, the belief in all
those things.

good to hear the voice raised
at the back. he mends his pockets
of am evening, and talks gratefully
to all the family.

in Mallwyd.

sbm.

they think, yet have
they googled bullying.

what is so wrong with
being kind and gentle
in approach.

we have found here
that softness works
well.

to escape the dreadfulness
of life.

prevent wars, even small ones.

sbm.

looking for one verse,
write another. fnding books,
read some other story.

there are installations
waiting, while the season,
slowly changes.

i have heard the news, await
the weather forecast.

meanwhile music plays,
early morning.

sbm.

maybe it is so, the creams they advertise
will work, blot out the lines,
that came with life, the fun and laughter.

i disagreed, yet he trusts all that he is told.
the wonder years.

we fed the ducks at bala.

sbm.

no news on sunday, asking why
am told that it was news all week,
there fore we need a rest one day.

moving on, i am engrossed in folding,
balancing, all those things i am
employed to do, some days.

the war may stop one day.

hopefully.

sbm.

quite hard .
sounds constant.

we are dry, safe ,
lucky in our lot, to be born
here.

i have heard the news today.

it is so bad.

there will be gusts of 35 miles
an hour moving north.

sbm.

back and forth,
limited number each time,
counting.

one did not return.
the last crossing.

sbm.

the installation.

an audience of two,
one helper, five minutes.

in multiples of ten, each
one six sticky fixers.

all about numbers,
until equipment depleted
there was a break in the high street.

tourists remark that
this is a beautiful place.

wonderland.

sbm.

he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.

the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.

the weather warning is cancelled.

6.12 am.

sbm.

days of restoration, making.

gathering , stacking found
books, some to tie, to read
later.

it is a curious thing, the cotton,
the string. there are films
and recollections for work.

if i say there is nothing
to understand, will you
understand this statement?



there is another ceasefire.

sbm.

don't you see, he said,
nothing will feel right again.

these things you have done,
may erase any sympathy you gleaned
from the past,
as awe full as it was.

sbm.

sits prettily, the starched mat
is frayed a little now.

it was an evening of festivities over
poetry, regarding god, diana, the queen
of hearts. catch phrase, a moderate game,
played better standing close, somehow.

the books were cheap, stock  sale in the library,
he left his life to live

in alaska. chapter two

sbm.

was it the beer,
that made him mellow,
or just a gentle way
about him,
naturally.

i slipped by.

when he asked if i was speaking,
i says," if you like".

we chatted over manners
and harboured hedges.

these things  happen in the lane.

sbm.

sun, was done and dusted.

by the slate they talked, shining.
faces older now, friendship retained.

learned a little more on life, the small
things, the wisdom rings
the generations.

i did not need all the mange tout.

sbm.

make bombs with razor bits
to explode and cut people up.

to ****, and dismember, some
one picks the bits up, to carry
home in a bag.

child.

two thousand and fourteen.

it is raining today.

sbm.

the words came suddenly.

an odd day, no gentle people
to woo thee, day of stress, and horror,
you watch the news. a day of reality,
the reckoning that no where is safe.

there is a new moon this week.

sbm

there is a feel in the air,
a change in the whether.

very place caused confusion,
pond dipping involuntary
shuddering, and delight at small creatures.

who play croquet with new rules,
we never knew the old, it proved
without flamingos
that i am not alice.

it is about a year now,
i blocked you.

sbm.

resting on one a while.

very early here, news came, so
now we lay  a while, to hope
it will alleviate the gloom from
those who have no manners, no
style and niceties. i will draw on
the experience, while others
bomb empty houses.

it is a gold award for drawing.

moon boats.

‘ i did not wish to die, my son’

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.

exams come to examine

every part of our character.

some times we pass, and passing on our knowledge to friends and family may help fears to lift, and things feel normal, a while.

the wind is coming again i hear, another exam.

you can forge the sick note.

how is it?


sbm.

then she spoke to me,
came from abergele,
at the door all day,
learning history
of kitchens, copper pans.

talked of every day, not dates,
or kings and queens.

the bedroom roped with blue,
a smallish bed and posies.

I feel nothing here,
no lost words or empathy.

it was closer, below.

where are you now?

is it a spinette?

sbm.

there is lavender
in the fire, someone
is tapping
on the window, patterned
with cracked kings and
predecessors.

sarah’s bible, hand held,
open via perspex
and blue velvet
at ecclesiastes
chapter three.

to everything
there is a
feafon, etc,
in italics.

sbm.

all the novels, and romance.

volume two to forty.
all others being
fakes
that need dusting.

the clocks,
no ticking, no sound.

soft sands of time
stand still.

the glass is clouded here.

it is an old place,
which shuts in winter.

sbm.

the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.

harp strings
relay the vital net,
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,

lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

it is an older mirror,
speckled with time.

liquid memories,

we make a place of safety
with our thoughts and habits.

our work. our souls
are in our chests.

look here, she said.
please, do not touch
the ladies bed,
with lavender and velvet pillow.

the way is barred now,
the time is past.

things have become misshapen.

sbm.

only one shutter
speed, htc desire.

so we clicks quite fast,
failing the photo challenge
today. It is a point to make
that any old camera will do,
if we is short on cash, or
undecided what to buy.

I am not at all tecnical
nor can i spell it. the coach

went quite fast.

sbm.

words came as i walked the lane with you,
watched the swallows. thinking i will write
them down back home. leaned on the bridge a while
boatmen dancing.

where have the years gone?

words lost.

radio news .

gaza.

sbm.

the dresser, will be dressed,
if not with work, something
else.

it is ready, will be sent, despite
undecided minds, impropriety.

will be sent despite blood
from bulbs, stranded fingers,
picked, plucked at rags, thead.

and filaments.

it seems the work is cupboards.

cabinet makers.

sbm.

it is the little things that excite, even
in the height of summer, low look
for seeds, small flowers studded
in hedgerows, dry stone walls here.

our lane remains dusty, unmade, plans
delayed a while to update. developers have
bought the big house, a nice place for holidays
and rabbits.

the stone lion is gone, due to health
and saftey, wobbly.

there is a small pool, to look
in for small blessings , a reflection
on the day .

seeds
for the future.

sbm.

spoke to me in welsh,
i answered him in english,
gave him 10p change
eventually.

taught me to say,
four pound fifty, so
we shook hands.
i showed him my accent.

laughing, told me to
go to the devil, while
i blessed him in his
native tongue.

from Mostyn, been
to a funeral.

sbm.

seven minutes past six,
should it have passed,
the back bedroom?

sometimes it is earlier,
or later than this.

classic fm.

nine minutes past six,
their number is six,
eighteen twelve, for
those up early, need
a mention.

the piano plays.

sbm.

early for work, so
cut my nails you know,
hoping it will make typing
more precise.

i bought the set in
glasgow, arcade, then
saw it cheaper on ebay.

it has lasted well.

nals look better,
typong still *******.

sbm.

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

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

sbm.

been talking on language.

never understood  before, now
on meeting again have no idea .

he talks about.

just my style has changed ?,

my whole life .

differs.
from here to there, not just
my hair.

least of it.

a meeting , round the round table.

he speaks a different language.

raw stringy man

how shall i prepare?

sbm.

it is another lanuage,
pinc, is welsh for pink.

small boys submit
digital, unlike the gate,
that glows rightly.

the touch of colour
is genius. some of us
are not, yet forge forward
with obsession, madness,
variety of colours.

there is another language.

sbm.

the ftse 100 opens,

the sky falls, rain sings.

birds wait

for wonderland.

smell the air,

the tide has pooled.



mine was a boy soldier,

he did not

go to war.

sbm

ginko and tulip tree,
along the path.

walk to clear the mind.

further, there are
stepping stones.

walk to the stone,
glimpse black butterfly.

farm to the right,
distant sound.

the gate is locked
at five.



sbm.

over the roof, low
flew above me, hovering.

called the gardener, he came
running. we watched the
red kite.

together.

they used to be rare.

sbm.

box hedged, so neat you can lean.

most days the doors are open,
on monday the doors are open.

wardrobe, cupboards, willingly,
if not just ask. see all the things
with love, to work with . linen fabric
hand sewn, pleated, contrast panels,
hung with tissue. brown paper
tied with notes. remember
their polished shoes, the smell of
home, your childhood.

books are tied in black, quilts
stitched with feathers, while friends
drift into mind, move, softly leave.

concentrate on another way.

watch the birds.

sbm.

there are no pins,
no easy way to fix
some things.

this time, we wait
to see the outcome.

mended plates aren’t funny,
scaffold a life.

don’t laugh, it may
happen to you.

listen, repeat the
random insects.

stitch another way.

sbm.

it was well said.

tired of all the rags and critisms?

listen to the artist, talk of
cumbria and cul de sacs.

listen to another, who follow stars,
cellular memory.

i have been a while here, now.
it may be time to leave, and find
the other way.

sbm.

as artists we go free,
yet included in the fee,
are coconuts and wrestling.

we travelled the path
again, he swarm followed
in revery.

the heron flew over.

while all the while we
danced and capered,
costumed and bustled,
women dressed as men,
men the women.

he held her on his knee
tenderly.

sigh on sigh,
they are in love,
them so beautiful,
down in the forest.



he held her on his knee
tenderly.

not bitten.

sbm.

warm, a sudden breeze.

as you like it.

from the valleys they came,
to act, entertain, travelling
troupe.

eye to eye, interaction, plenty
of action, and oh,
the costumes all pretty
in that green place,
with a hey
and a **.

birds sang, ants crept.

we laughed, sang, danced the lane
forgetting the path.

it was, as we
like it.

sbm.

late june, it is a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

we have watched the house,
is he leaving now?  is this that darker
place?

plans for the forest fell apart, with apathy,
lack of repellant. we will try again,
tonight.

it is a darker place.

sbm.

left the ring in procession,
silently walked the track.

dust rose, the distance grew.

out of sight, talked in code and rhythms.

a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze.

on return, no one spoke.

sbm.

to some one else,

will they fall upon flesh,
rip it, rearrange,
leave to sleep?
maybe it were their rags.

handle with care,
small eggs hold with love,
rearrange tenderly, add cake.

we saw hedd wyn, yesterday.



sbm.

a hot day at the mill,
fans cooled us, wool
sat heavy.

heat rose from the car park,
we busied.

made enough dogs.

i have no photograph,
the usual line.

sbm.

writing stuff, not physically,
curled up in the big settee.

opened the window behind me,
talked to pretoria, prettily.

not hard work, packing stuff,
to go, unless big and unwieldy.

midsummer yesterday, it was
not difficult to see it through, warm
and sunny.

dreaming of war tired me.

yellow star houses.

sbm.