slowly.

passed the drawing studio, old  general shop,
passed the chapel, you know who lives there.

passed the man outside his flat, sunbathing, pinkly

passed the lad, kicking dust under the railway.

days passed.

sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

may be i am soft like
gentle ways.

we went to the mountain
sat at the base chatting,
looking up.

walking the path, the sun
caught our shoulders,

at the salmon leap, we paused
at the lack of fish.

grass grew greener,
we are older now,

happy.

enough.

sbm.

lost in the ashmoleum, lost
in antiquity.

i may have paid the price.



the museum is free.

accordingly.

as i said,
i could not help
but cry.

we do not often speak of it.



bound.

sbm.

charcoal.

yes

a soft substance

easily crushed,

manipulated.

must ensure,

i am not

sbm.

reading does, the radio plays
hymnals, sacred sleeping music.

investigated, is it tickly, chesty,
do you seek production,
yes just look how much it costs now,
no, not if you are driving, this one
will not make you drowsy.

neither will you get the top off,
it is 100 percent proofed.

i looked for pins, 20 p a bunch,
a better deal for fixing things,

nicely.

sbm.

lead us to think there is no planning,
no list of instructions, therefore no
notes on mending.

so we stick it, wipe it, cough
dificulties into craw, sliming over
the worst of it.

without the light on things look worse,
leaning over carefully, flick a switch,
listen to the news.

all things combined,
leads to variety in puddings.

sbm.

peppered with softer marks,
light washes, while we are
all dishevelled, worried
about nothing in particular.

did you find a clean hankie
leaving out the d, you felt
should be there.

did you read the history,
yesterday, or did you
just sketch and draw
the chorus.

the day dawns, who is weary. tell me.

sbm.

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.

A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.

The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.

Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.

perhaps it was the weakness,
brought on with aspic jelly,
perhaps the truthfulness
that lives inside me.

i admitted it was me, and in
the confusion babbled and fought
embarasment. it is truthful
and honest work i do each day,
yet i am discovered now.

secrets will come out, lies will catch
you some day, they do say.

he was a nice man, who explained,
who takes photographs. I will leave
him gifts.

sbm.

make complications, rebuke.

electronic mailings
back, forth, fourth
again. it is their responsibility,
arrangment, role, assigned post.

it is so very important, so difficult.

phoned the other one, he just
said yes.

job done.

sbm.

golden, sweet as lions
that lay with lambs.

in the dark of the kitchen,
underground,
he asked. tilted head.

slowly i poured it into
his open  mouth.

sweet child.

string all up the lane.

whilst

out of the strong came sweetness.

sbm.

they say she knitted till she left, sat up in bed.

others met in london, neither happy,
moved back to wales.

blanket stitch, small dogs, told
my story, in batches, the stitches
punctuating.

words now.

words of life, words of wonder
that these things happen.

sbm.

do you glue this, fix that,
or do you simply replace.

you must know by now,
we eat off mended plates,
and rise when  birds sing.

it may be a forgotten thing,
those cotton hankies, darning,
repairing old , hung together
with string.

yet, it may be you do the same,
standing tall, waiting.

for pins.

sbm.

now the grass is mowed
with stripes. perfumed air
pervades the lanes, the corridors.

tell me tales of oswald.
crow bird proposed,
the ring returned..

perhaps his presence
was required?

one wonders if they asked
before they hung him
on the tree,
oswald's tree.

perfumed air
pervaids the lanes.



shropshire, such a pretty place.

sbm.

neatly pressed, uniformed,
looking for matron.

the vestibule, signing in,
taking out. small girl
grown older, bolder now.

these are the growing days.
big school, and endless
performances. not yet
the final curtain.

you made no difference
whatsoever.

small girl.

sbm.

a simple mistake, typing
e when it shouldn’t be so.
changed the word, the meaning,
the shape of the final text.

it was some time, way back, i met
the theatre, ardudwy. now it is
named harlech, while i start
my residency today.

provided with two cabinets.

sbm.

with ann.

side table holds the milk,
sugar, napkins, all agreed.
it is cyan.

his portriat is cyan,
cut carefully, a little younger,
dylan.

little garden, summers day,
her plant is mullein.

sandwiches and prunes
after aberystwyth school of art.

a splendid day, a very splendid cabinet.

sbm.

given cutest toys,
they drew, charcoaled
evil monsters.

eyes bleeding lead,
fingers bled,
graphite stained.

asked to draw
things they loved,

created Things.

the novice drew her sewing set.

half term, big schoool.

sbm

four boats were sent. all much the same,
all differing,

oars to row.

a cross to bear.

three left, one remains.

the last boat.

sbm.

involved.

erasing of words. the text.

started a time back, my friend,
group of us , writing, illustrating,
coming together, moving apart
in miles.

a daily habit.

how to explain the heart
of this matter,

yet does it matter.?

words explain them selves,
as do pictures.

each one tells a story.

erasure.

he had a man's gift.

sbm.

a luxury, to have time
to check, doubly,
font and image.
to twice the normal extent
or degree.

things happen, we deal,
cards are set, dice thrown.

life moves on.

no time to double check,
change things before

is set in time , in memory.

two times,
in two ways

we multiply.

sbm.

soft stuff wool
unless is tapestry,
lasts a life time.

they say.

knitted, it needs
flattening, pinning
in squares.

choosing
carefully, pearl headed
fit for the task,
we pin
uncontrollably,
obsessively,
blotting out bullies
and other unecessary
items.

it is the wrong size.

some seek perfection.

sbm

did you read some time ago,
about the old garden. the men
who felled the trees, lowered the terraces,
months of noise, clatter, tan llan.

do you know that on visiting,
gasped at change , beauty
quality of light.

it is a lesson to remind,
change can be a surprising

thing.



pleasantries.

sbm.

grey  day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.

this is the valley
of the widow.

this is the day.
writing  the wall,
trees stand tall.

yellow flags, the route,
to glyn y weddw.

know these things.
life will bring. words
in books, paper air.

a name that still remains.

write it.

sbm.

near the marches.

it is my brother’s birthday
soon, , stopped
in the village to shop.

it is a good store, post
office at the back, steaming
gently, brown paper, calculating.

the candles are dear, just one pack left,
perhaps a power cut come lately?

anadin, i tidied, whilst i waited gently.

outside she wondered at the ivy
outside to inside the place.

some one moved gently
behind her.

i could not sleep with all
that wondering.

the wandering through
the marches.

sbm.

did the breeze come
late last night, or did
some one slip into the room.

you were sleeping.

was there some one in the house
creeping
down the stairs. looking,
another time for thinking.

you were sleeping. now waking
wonder at the blessed company
of mindful thinking.

tidy the curtain.

sbm.

meeting
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.

symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.

literally.

naturally .

the talk
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.



drawing.

sbm.

what small thing
touched you yesterday,
touched your heart.

among the larger issues,
outstanding nonsense,
did some thing
stop you in your tracks
to wonder.

one small thing.

did you too
forget richard parker ?

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.

as you know,
some of us work sundays,
unless we work on monday.

some times we have this
day off, to have a weekend
of slower time. we pinned
the thought of you, carefully
35 times. needing more, we
shall shop on monday.

small gold at 20p a bunch
not counted. so you are
safe. i have his number
reinstated. twice have stated.


this does not mean i love you.

i shall send them to america.

sbm.

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.

sbm.

some of it did not work,
so added red , text, news
paper.

some of it did not work,
added bunting, torn
paper.

most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.

sbm.

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

sbm.

kept in a box, precious.

lifted down for those to see,
that care.

did the understanding come,
the idea that all old things
are wanted, needed for their story.

not discarded on higher round,
where dust and moth abound.

the lesser garment became prefered,
as the last shall become the first.

we shall look at the photographs.

sbm.

she said, the time is right
funny how things work out.

the discussion was on the crucifixion,
how things get lifted, to cook
a cabinet pudding. it may have been
early, yet you see, the swallows are back.

the buttercups are out.

sbm.

another day of counting,
numbers. some escape
the concious gaze, while some
are far remembered.

numbers incorrect, we
move our gaze to mirrors.

slanted the world looks
pleasant, thread and buttons
surround.

this is not a metaphor,
this is not a a saying.

heavy rain lasted all day.

sbm.

one is down, string
broken.

remembering now
metal birds in comics,
one flew over low
yesterday.

i fail to describe
this place as it felt
saturday,

wet green, womb like.

it is a colder spring,
now with rain.

sbm.

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.

in 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.

alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

sbm.

work is steady, absorbsion
as if the outside world
is ended. looking up
find it has not.

stamped a hundred times
in rhythm,
war of the worlds.

a call, a message.

i was not excited.

it is forever autumn.

sbm.

.it is a way of sharing.


the poem read in steady voice
resounds. begs to share.

sending words out for pictures,
sending pictures out for words.

the voice reads on regardless.

a small thing remembered,
in mind, in music, the sharing.

the collaboration.

sbm

.listening to the world.


hearing everything in return,
unwanted, unwilling to partake
in all the particulars.

time will tell, while
decisions come quietly.

are you tired of waiting,
do you grasp the mettle,
write it down?

young man.

sbm.

.finding a place.


one bolt left,
not for sale as a whole.

yet carefully cut, sewn, packed,
the small room, it is available
to share.

have you heard his voice
high over mountains, repeating.

do you like this cloth, tradition weaves,
these old skills.

having told him this, the work continues.

sbm.

tea time. soaked
through.

hours, wandering the lanes,
finding the shore,
my independance.

watching the silversmith,
the birds sing, water

logged, lost, happy
in the knowing.

chocolate egg,
on return.

sbm.

suggested at dinner, to make
a photograph splendid, i noticed

the same in paintings at exhibition.

looking out, the grave yard, noticed
a touch of colour by the white.

walked down to find a new grave.

then, i tidied yours.

you, who disliked a touch of red.

sbm.

today i am drawing boats,
using charcoal, integrity,

connected memory.

smudged.

cut lines in paper,watch shadows grow,
marks leap up, move down into grapite.

fixative , varnish
seal, create headaches.

glue the power house, paste and be
******.

these are the drawing days,

days of endless music, looped.



how much he loves her.

sbm.

the landing has an unpleasant smell,
started the day before yesterday, warm weather.

air freshener spent, we use cheap perfume
from aldi. is my house not clean ? remember
this smell of old. some wee creatured done died
in the loft, floor boards, some which place.

i have spent hours looking for the body, to take to
the church yard gently, spent time spraying
madame glamour, my daughter.

know with time, it will fade, pass as all
things.

I found last years birds nest yesterday,
twined with horse hair.

the field is empty now.

one swallow.

sbm.

we shall leave the upper room,
as others left before.

all comes slowly, let it be.

let the converastion over take
the drawing, drawing out ideas ,
allelujas of creativity.

let the friends come slowly,
join the group. we shall draw.

we shall use the lower chamber.

I have a letter from a friend.

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.