two installations, the old garden,
blue bells, wild garlic fuelling the air.

rain soaked, watcing the rooks nest
high at rosemundy, falling backwards
woke to find just a dream.

the doves
were plaster.

rosemundy.

sbm.

i have been away, met folk, lost a letter.

it may be a pattern, way of thinking, the peptide
theory.

it may be simply nothing, another idea
to fade in memory.

it was all uproar in the upper room.

sbm.

we had 3d each,old money
for sweets from the cafe.

it was not a cafe any
more, a corner shop,
not on the corner, which
makes me wonder why so many
were on said corner?

i liked ross’s
puff candy, left
by the fire to go
sticky. palm toffee
and crisps.

yet the latter were 3d
a bag, a waste of money mum said,
just potato, so they were banned.

my brother was older, working
bought them for me in secret.

these days i like liquorice,a lot.

sbm.

it is an ancient place,
oswald’s tree, the floor
bends, polished wood.

there was a wedding yesterday,
all kilted, the groom ate pie,
wore proper shoes with segs.

she showed me a cabinet, a spoon,
hand forged, old, beaten for sale.

i was travelling,  a pretty
place, not good enough for some.

the bottle is crooked,

we left it
so.

means despite of,
yet sitting, write each day.

while clothes are aired
ready. the dog fed
layed belly down, asleep.

while the cat belches prettily,
stalks back out to open air,

writing continues not with standing.

some times in bed sitting,
now curled – the sofa.

a night of dreams has left,
the same dream over.

i do not write in spite of,
i write because .

sbm.

to think, that maybe driving slowly
is a good idea, with all the sirens
going.

pause a while to correct the mistakes,
remove the tiltles that are
not needed.

launch into space, with ideas which
defy all religion.

it is a quiet place, a book with lists
and crosses.

my brother phoned, i may stay
with him a while.

sbm.

could be anything,it is
relevant.

pins can be dangerous on the floor,
stuck in fingers, laid abed with a bandage tied,
his chest was tight, his head red hot.

soothed with oboe, finlandia ,rabbit,
the rag fell off out of site, the game
continued.

sbm.

is written, is said, may be sung,
another day. a smudge is all it takes
to start.

once started move on. it may be the wrong
item, it is, just, what it is now, a label.

it rained most of the day ,the roof leaked.

a friend returned that evening.

i will draw the mermaid, with a fish.

sbm

i like wool, and tidying it,
notice the flecks and textures,
sneezing once again at the mohair,
with no news, no more
of sahara dust, move on

to admire couture of the linen dress,
the bias cut, and tucking, quite a feat

in these days of mass produced.

the duchess wore a coat like no other,
my daughter says it makes no sense
these days, when all others just
grab clothes ******, and get to work.

we reckon her mother in law’s brooch
will be sewn on preventing loss.

we all experience this in some way,
loss that is, not the queen’s jewellery.

i like a working day

sbm.

the reluctant apprentice, trained
with brown paper and string.

the redundant book binder, left
to the world with care.   hoped

to eradicate a lack of training , gold
leaf tracing a memory. retuned eventually
through mappe mundi, national libraries
all ancient tape and frogskin.



chained.

the books are bound.

sbm.

all is not lost, never was
just hidden. a hole, those
years gone.

i went to rio.

there are no photographs

sbm.

mapped in mind, early
rose into hope at nine,
slowly slid as we cleared
the way.

other dreams caught us,
the colour, the flower.

wondered at the *******.
bottles, that have no meaning,
yet, mean everything.

it stood in dust for 30 years,
the rag inside a comfort.

as a museum. now jon lord
plays, the durham cathedral.

sbm.

is discussed at length,
the book is bound for

nightmares. it starts
early evening. retiring
to the upper rooms

the rags are torn ready
to close, to bind his
book in definitely.

it is an inheritance.

he talked about wills,
put his head under the cover,
slept.

sbm.

blows all things out the window

it started with mohair, carried
on with warmer weather.

need a hankie, they are clean
and ironed in the box by the bed.

not everyone is immune, i have
heard there is high pollution in
the air.

sand from the sahara.

other things are clear, all clear.

sbm.

bridge stone warms,   lean thoroughly,
watch carefully,    see all small things
swimming.

concentrate, all comes into focus,
floating.

these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm , negotiate the old woods,.

there are  trees down.

sbm.

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some  seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio playes the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

plus 66 pence.

now i can buy the things
i think i need,  find that

i am not bothered, that
i have the things i need.

it is a box of old postcards,
that started the conversations,
the ideas and interaction.

it was rather good.



collaborations work.

sbm

a long way to buy liquorice, anguish,
to draw, with draw.

remember the table,
bread and fruit, slate laid bare.

know that, when all is bungaloid
your heart lays elsewhere.

sbm.

there is a boat in a bottle,
art in a jar. there was a need to collect,
keep working.

there never was a gun, no trigger, no need
to mainipulate, learn to spell.

he gave us gifts, i felt guilty taking them.

his face lit up.

sbm.

space paced in air.

space quiets each noisy soul
into silent submission.

air humbled the cup, the face
the noise of the days.

the drawing waits
for time, as do all things.

a quiet space.

i took no photograph.

sbm

john rutter plays this morning,
birds sing.

the dolls are mine, together, apart in pastel boxes,
worth a little bit. copied, light spaced.

photograph the photograph, to endear
as chinese whispers, to age and burn, to scrape,
to churn the memory, to mount on
good paper, yet delving find music, manuscript
to change my mind.

i met Reuben…………..

john rutter plays this morning.

as he changed his words, the pictures changed.

a new meaning , a new endevour. i still think of him.

things move slowly steadily as snails in the garden,
yet, as i watched the fire, felt the heat, we started moving
toward america.

sbm

we are friends , we met in the lane.

the words sound like poetry, the quiet
voice sounds shouting in this silence.

it can make windows and opportunities,
space to accompany the music.

travel far and in between, play the right notes,
write notes, and then maybe, all will come

clear. or not.

i need that stop.

sbm.

no sugar.

should i change my words
or is there no such verb.

are you learning language,
niceties, the will to live

after you thought all
was lost.

work together.
we are making a new world,
is this  our
earth and heaven?

sweet tea.

sbm

tucked in, nice curtains
frame the photograph

while i google syntax
and superlative,

conjunctions, filling.

forgot the dentist appointment,
another dark mark on the horizon.

lead soldiers may cause lead poisoning,
the line come longers, the family taller.

yes, it was a lovely day, pat.

sbm.

a puzzle, what to do with the
ficticious thing, the thing we
don’t have.

an idea.

with that in mind, we
plot and plan.

work on our identity.

a busy day,
which worked out well.

it was the obvious, that
they did not all see.

i bought seeds for the hawfinch.

sbm.

was collected, may be sent
to london in the post. he will
have to declare the contents
of the box, as i declare
my work.

she is often startled
by those words, as we

all are sometimes.

soon the swallows come.
we shall go to stokesay.

sbm.

found in the graveyard,
the day of the ringing.

still warm, 316, plus a silver band.

taken gently to the garden
to observe, such a large beak.

friends came to see. report
the findings. this evening

the hawfinch is collected for tests
to see. the hawfinch cannot see,

the other fell
by my gate.

sbm.

satie plays.

today the thoughts are changed,
each time, to see, what else to be.

to think without the culture, the nurture,
reborn to hear the news, to look anew.

we are not to blame,
it is the way of things.

seven thirteen monday morning.

sbm.

sunday
Posted on March 16, 2014

off. stayed a while,
listening to the morning.

she said she had nothing to say,
yet her descriptions were thralling.

talk of allotments, sewing,
domestic days.

i like her letters.

i must write,
thank her for the book.

wild wales.

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.

as a child
Posted on March 14, 2014

come in dreams, the shape
of your face remaining.

there is a line now,

dreams and aspirations.



words and degradations.



lines deepen, water etched.



window open, birds sing.

mostly foggy here today.

sbm

looking down saw grubby fingers,
smuts from the fire, cleared early.

spit and hanky  rub the mark away,
travel regardless. may be spring
that day.

cannot read your mind, sir, nor mind
the consequences of my stain.

i have sooty marks,the head is clear.

walk the canal path, eat cheese,
and softer figs.

oh my , these are the falling days,
the days of the life.

sbm.

hear the trees come down,
see logs and timber.

hear about the taming,
hawfinches ringed.

caught in nets,
no stress intentended.

hear about the taming of all
things. pray it is not you.

stay with intention.

sbm.

this is not intended,
the making of time.

not planned,
the days of our
lives.

let us not regret,
yet look to the good
things.

biggles and buzz.

dates to remember.

sbm.

a wild cat came. broke the glass.

it stood there twenty years, now
it is shattered.

and cuts.

sbm.

while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.

caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,

thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.

concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.

earth and heaven.

sbm.

have you ever prayed, bowed,
head to ground. have you
written yet another note
regarding disorder.

here are the paintings, in awe
they wonder, and know not
the artists’ names. there are alms
and offerings.

remember the boy spread out,
cruciform.

you looked without apprehension.

i cried subtle tears.

this is the cathedral.

sbm.

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 david.

sbm

he says it is the word.

they will remember.

i will remember them all,
tidy, kind, white table cloths,
napkins, the favourite
picture.

i will remember you,
work out your age
every year. the wind blows.

all beautiful faces. the friends.

sbm.

they will send a new one,
the music will come
through, replacement,
so it will be rated
highly.

one leg rides up. leaving
the other leg longer,
looking some what
silly.

the top is lost somewhere,
a tee shirt will do.

skin is clear, the birds are singing,
no interference here..

facts

sbm.

words can be long,
as in bone,
and the soul,
oppose.

or hard, as in
can,
kite and ketchup.

this, us, miss
is hissy
as in fit.

unfortunately
there is no evidence
that the bards
had their own alphabet

sbm.

it is post 582
here,
despite the ones
lost,
some time
ago.

we are
building
a
new world here.

of earth with heaven.

on earth.

the witness came,
declared he may be wrong,
mistaken, incorrect.

like me.

sbm.

strange habit, breakfast at lunch.

strangle collars that hold, strangles
the voice into trebles. trinity
meaning three.

we fought the way from darkness,
into light, birds singing early
without the need, of alarms.

he said it was raining there.
here it was not.

now it is.

there are nuns in dolgellau.

sbm.

joined the circle, like it.

words are strewed, chewed,
suggestions made to change
things for the better.

maybe it is laziness or harder
work, that leaves well enough
alone.                  small child
playing.

having tried to change much,
words are left as they fell.

joined the circle. i like it.

sbm.

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

white, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love, so vehemently.

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

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

sbm.

i have escaped
your pleasant grasp
or does my head
magnify the situation?.

sherlock holmes.

will dr. watson prescribe
me.             sense.

then multiply ideas
like flies in abundance.

sbm.

is gone, i will look for it later.

it died in death, laid it gently
in the bathroom, on the soap
box, moving it only when the
ceiling leaked. we have had
some weather.

the pears soap box, has no moth
now, never mind, i shall search gently
in the light.

of day.

sbm.

soles hung by the window,
smooth leather shone, despite
light lost, despite the rain.

did you make these soles,
did you stitch and polish them.
did you make your mark there,
hang for all to see?

do many come in on the street,
after looking for housman, lost.

do many say, they would not do,
where we live, slipping the slate.

those are london shoes, not country shoes,
yet the soles are admirable, sir.

sbm.

witnesses came again,
reminding the words are there,
black and white, the finger writ,

he said, in the beginning it was so.

then having spake moved on, with
language unbeknown. how did

they let it happen, the flood, how
did the house surrender. a holy

place. a place of conversation, stuff
of the age, no empire building here.

there was scarambled egg, and a cabinet
pudding waiting.

sbm.