it is the rule,
now . we try new things.

i have houmus, thought
of you, pat. she bought
rye bread, thirty percent
reduced.

in price.

i bought a mending set,
packed in a tin, like the war,
full of little things.

pincushion, tomato shape,
with pins stuck in.

i bought you a geometry
set. draw shapes, measure
angles.

have you,
tried something new.

recently?

sbm.

this  morning they prayed

for those at sea.



the snail has been wandering,

silver trailed the mat

and hallway, escaping rain,

and wondrous sundries.



there is a calmness

a tiny red scooter.



we talked of loss,

they often understood.

sometimes they didn’t

and forgot the apostrophe.



sbm

what you see is magnified.

they leave here larger than life,
petrified in their own forests.
scan beds and lens.

light the cracks, the boxes.

tie the books closed, leather
bound, broken, words lost.

boxes can be opened to
reveal,  still quiet faces.

small lives

sbm

it is the lower limb,
that dries, the skin
that itched. now

we have emollient
typed in braille,
made of soft paraffin.

is there a hard form,
my brothers used liquid
on their hair, parted
severely, on a particular side.

i have a cardigan buttons
that way, thick and warm.

when greased we feel we
may be going to sea swim
the channel. legs all sticky.

it is the lower limb that dries.

sbm

whether they come early or
later, it depends on their diary
whether they come at all.

repair man comes on time,
as does the roofer. yet
the window cleaner never
came at all, this month.

saw him on his ladder
in the village down the road.

cleaning other windows. mine
are not looking too badly though.

they are washed with rain, daily.

sbm.

is carpeted with snowdrops.

did you see them at 60mph,
overtaking. did you slow later
to see the next drift. did you reach
your destination safely.

did you stop for coffee there,
have a chat, look at the meat
and biscuits.

did you see the rainbow that
spanned the empty house.

did you ever wonder,
what happened next?

it is a small life, treat
it gently.

sbm,

is very handy, so now
i have another egg cutter,
coffee grinder, he brings
old things for me, mends
old things for me, generally
repairs and sweeps, the

lower terrace.

ask him anything, he will
discuss, pleasantly. resourceful
is a word i can spell, i tell
you there are a few things i cannot,
do. so i have the handyman come.

also have a windowcleaner. he
did not come, yesterday



sbm.

not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.

as can we, yet i guess
a duck can’t smile, ian.

can snails smile, i know
i smile a lot, learned it
at dance class, whatever
happens, keep it up.

continues now, at work,
they say it cheers you up,
makes your cheeks hurt,
sometimes.

i pinned the label on.

sbm.

i went to see the water,
estuary edge to the road,
water blind. there were signs.

sheep sheltered under rock.

glad i saw the old houses,
wintering, wood smoked,
perfumed. glad i smelled
the oak burning, turning

the corner, saw the flood,
the road swimming, so
returned back home.

lit the fire.

i am glad i went.

they have reserved the book for me.

sbm

do you mind?

no not really,
have got used to it,
the pleasantries.

did not mind january,
despite others’ calamities.

bechod.

cosy here, the cat
sits at the computer, buzzing
steadily.

never mind, if we mind.
we gets on with it
readily.

the cursor jumps.

sbm

yesterday. did not read the stuff
. wrote about laundry.

you know sudsyy hot water smells,
ironing airing, mending . the usual.

if you read here regular, you may
expect to read domesticity,
of sorts.

there are cobwebs, memories, yet the linen
is clean, with dabs of cotton.

so aghast, i did the work again,
i hope it is properly.



sbm

one hundred and fifty faces,
for japan sticky. drawn some

years ago, she is still the same.
looking out constantly, her dress
a little loose about the neck, i often
think should have a k like knee.

perhaps the button should be fastened now,
hair washed. is she is too young a thing
to be kept here,standing in her own scaffold.

other faces will be posted some where
else, the cross added in red ink.

she is not for sale



sbm.

once the jeweller, now me.

spend the night thinking.

been mending a necklace,
pearls through the night.
some months now, gradually
threading.

thread so thin, i cannot see.

it was done, when
some beads slipped off.

i shall start again.

sbm.

evokes memory.

hung on  a chair,
plush velvet, sheen and colour,
plum with lace.

sparkling neckline.

the scarf, subdued blue hangs
over. i kept looking

at the contrast while
they talked.

there is another dress
i have drawn.

not photographed.

sbm.

we have spoken before.

the looms stand idle, some in store
some with recognition.

machines work less in cold,
sheds and lack of encouragement.

we worked the day with thread
and needle, only turning forward,
cutting cotton backward.

with squares we talked, of
older times,

light shed on weave,
broke the heart to bone.

days have gone, the names,
the weaves, the places.

he remains, he still has the music.

sbm.

having been invited, to write,
an invitation, inviting you,

i wrote instead about the
calling card, you know the
one by the clock, the one
i have not photographed.

aked again to do it properly,
requested politely, the you
after queue,, i started, yet the
double spacing and rhyme
annoyed me.

i watched bleak house instead.

the storm raged

sbm.

late we come,  early.
winter still, warm.

approach the bridge,
the bridge in the village.

there hangs the cloud,
wipe the windscreen.

can you see, do you,
know where you are.

they came through the prysor
valley.        family.

a cloud hung there too.

sbm.

dream of making marks,
graphite, coal, pen
with ink.

see those marks
of making, chips
in slate, chopping
fire sticks, ages old.

step worn, door scratched.

bold marks on paper,
fingers bled into stone.

it has been done
all our lives, one way.

then another. words
in air, words shouting,
no one to hear.

i live on my own.

sbm.

do you like the feeling,
walking ahead quickly,
moving forward, loosening limbs.

pushing through wind,
through water, rain slanting.

shouting, counting the rams,
shadowing shepherd. wee

mouse on the path, beady
eyed. these are the hopeful days,
weak sun aching to shine.

these are the days, the marches.

after

idly chat to neighbours, to fetch
the dog, to dawdle, to wind
slowly down.

the snowdrops are out.

sbm.

it is a relaxing place the library,
free rental on a dvd if you borrow
books.

a barry hines. all creatures great
and small.the enemy within, a short
history of witch hunting, recommended

by the boston globe, and a guide to
the king james bible, the english language,
words like begat, horribly afraid, goats and swine.

a lovely children’s illustrated for inspiration, delight.

we built blocks, read jokes, talked of mending,
forgot our toys.

i read asher lev….

the dvd didn work.

sbm,

do you remember i wrote
about the hawfinch, dead

at my gate? i have the skull
to wonder at the big beak.

such a big beak. a man
came yesterday, explained
yew berries, the outer shell
and kernel. none in the drive
today.

no berries left, these trees,
there are no hawfinch here,
today, sir.

yes, you may photograph.

this skull.

sbm.

no fabric left, well
just a tad, not as much as
expected, hoped.

no garments found,
weave named after
the area. in town

made flannel for shirt
underthrift for jacket.

oh how we love a long coat
all sunday best on monday.

with what we have we may
make place mats, or send them
to the other mill, still noisy.

dust in air.

dust in air.

sbm.

talk of concrete in pretoria
thoughts on moths in wales.

there is only air between .

talk goes on all day, about the heat,
the rain and drizzle,
no thoughts on the shipping
forecast. words red, remembered.

the bird, the boy, the machine,
there is only air between.

sbm.

how much is the book today,
ten pounds to you. there

were more all sold. the old
dealer did a moonlight flit.

how much is the book today,
fifteen pounds, simple pictures,
will you take a bottle?

a ledger clerk, i balanced well.

then remembered him. aproned, legless
ruling lines.

the book binder.

sbm.

finding the last call,
now know it will all
start up again.

the unbound book.

the pages,
the words.

from you they will
come, any of you.

you just need to do it.

a book about death.

sbm

the wrong way?

follow  your heart,
high, mountain track,
scattered trees,  country
road.

spend the day , waterlogged
moor, black rooted, bring it home.

the memory , the heart, of
all that there is. turn

your face to the wind,
rain, snow, feel the bite.

take it home.

sbm.

ran cold, constant
sound of wind and heaven.

streamed the house with sound,
music of the years, laughing,
singing. into
the house next door, whistling.

i explained, he came and
fixed the washer.

he is the gas man.

sbm.

it was ivy, dead, that flapped,
strangled wire. this wind, this winter.

now these are labelled,
tidied, and wiped clean,
cloth. damped
in warm water. he came

from nantlle valley,
pretty place, gritty place
on the way to snowdon.

he talked, we watched dust,mote
imagined words, saw
the butterfly, it was the
thirteenth of this month

did you notice the different weaves,
the names, the celtic not. have you

heard the language, problems arising,
too long spent driving. two of them
work well, one is new paper
that will not ash the flame.

will you remember them, narcussus,
small people who suffer?

i will send their photograph.

sbm

“mist rose before me,unexpected.those words said  dumbfounded me a moment,as i raised my eyes saw the most beautiful controlled face,and i fell.”

new numbers came
suddenly, soon
after one.

nothing added any more,
all began to subtract,
divide, the result
algebraic

there are no rulers,
lines to divide,
the total is irrelevant
now, the
addition foremost.

i have been to the counting.

sbm.

the visitor came, silently,
while waiting patiently,
did not hear him.

did not hear him creep
nor hear him sleep.

yet he rose clean and early,
to work another day. patiently
i waited.

he is a working man.

sbm.

have you ever slept slowly,
holding all hand to hand,
savouring the softness,
dark of night.

they say there is a new moon,
i saw it sickled, bright. they say

that all will come right, while somethings
are wrong.

have you ever slept late,
not minding at all, that

things move slowly.

have you ever checked the date,
to see that time has passed
quite slowly.

sbm.

laid some time awake, come
sadly in to the day. learned to
care again, and learning this,
remember not to care about wires,

these technical oddities, this modern
age. care about the old things, the ways.

it has been said twice, better
than not at all. have you read the old books?

in dreams make the things you love,
take them, show them to this world.

i will put them in exhibition.

sbm.

i have cake here, tony made it me,

last year he made a wooden glove box, as my red x one overflowed, the year before a tiny clothes hanger.

only yesterday i hung the knitted clothes i bought in pickering, no room for the pants, i pinned them to the wall. he is brenda’s husband.

she likes victoria sponge,

too.

sbm.

spelled refipe in old books,
expect difafter spelled the same.

manner.

check the symptoms daily.

it is that time of year, with whether,
fear for those at sea, the radio
plays for me.

these are the darker days,
petrified forests, all too
many effs. spelling can be
a pleasant pastime, when all else
fails.

to activate the brain, and pleasant hormones.

sbm.

surprising, probably teasing,
hopefully.        it was said.

deflated, we walked the lane,
watched the flood.     water

everywhere, washed the car
needlessly. tidied
the outbuilding, swept the

cellar.       it has been
raining a lot recently. be

careful what you say.

sbm.

wind blows round our houses,
here.
wide walls hold  back, draughts
fan the fire. clean welcome air.

wind blows the sea into town, blows
the bodies. it is a very sad

affair.

small town, wind blows round.

the birds sang earlier this morning.

sbm,

pattern set, the loom is idle.

slaying the reed is over,
task of threading done.

hope over  holiday,
a thread may fall.

the mill is a place of
meeting, greeting

this new year.

tenterhooks.

the pattern is set,
in stone.

sbm.

not of war, it is peaceful here.



I have heard such dreadful stories

of casualties, these days

and before.                     senseless.



I would ***** my words

if it would help.


I can help this one,

a victim of the

hot and dandy night.


I will show you his photograph.



I took her into the woods, the grass was

too long, though cooler there,

she was too small.



sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

edited 2014.

have you seen a drawing,
bold, that hits your heart,

licks and smudges
make the picture
of a man.

yet look sideways, it may
be you, or her, each day

there is something different
in the mirror.

each way, drawing you in.

it is framed. as are you now.
there is no photograph.


sbm.

the end of the year, time for the counting,
time to number, categorise, remember the things,
lost. the people.

the list is endless, we highlight, tick, arrange
in rows, the stuff of our lives, the shirts and
nonsense. we mend the family clothes,
while ours are unrepaired. a whole day

counting.

he brought the logs, more than i imagined.

sbm.

all things change,
except they say, one.
changes come

squirrels and disarray.

river ebbs, flows, tidal,
otter marks erased, the lane

quiet now. locals walk, leaves stir.

in passing we remember those.

birds fly up, we laugh again.

he gave red wine, will bring logs.


sbm.

ays of our memory,
days of our thought.

i have been taught
repeatedly not to believe

the things i think.

seems i am not even
a heathen. the bishop

tells me so.

i thought the cat was lost,
i think it is saturday.

after christmas.

sbm.

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 independant air, profound words,
from those who care.

are we all naive?

i think i am.

sbm.

it is a ritual, it is the music,
the loom, the gestures, the

night before christmas,
hand over mouth, awe

and wonder. some sounded
fire works, dogs cowered.

some sounded bells, calling
the village to come.

some stayed at home, wondered
at the small things surrounding.

the weaver of raveloe.

linen thread.

sbm.

now is the time to fix the lights,
close the windows, light the fire,
have things steady.
did you know that everything is packed,.

happy christmas

sbm

storm predicted, wind swept,
the visitors came, to report
the leak was dripping
on the soap and mothth.

my bath room.

it has been a week of water,
seeping the cellar, blowing
the window wide, wreaking
repairs.

the soap was laid gently,
a radiator, pears.

the mothth on a cottin flannel
to air.

they both dried, thanks
to my visitor.

I stayed home all day.

sbm.