reactions, speak louder.

so when there are none
look for a meandering way.

the lane is long,
now there is no escaping,
only one way to the end.

a little conversation
never goes amiss.

there are times
during demolision
one gets bruised.

we used to go to the pub on pay day.

sbm.

small gifts. buttons,
came, loose, tiny.

some in packets,
some in jars, stray
one in the pocket,
washed now,
probably lost.

lately we had
one in exhibition,
with thread still
attached.

the larger ones are private,
kept round the house
for comfort.

i heard some people
dislike them, phobias.

appalachian spring.

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.

did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.

these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.

one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.

it is a gift.

tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a

gift.

sbm.

is probably that there is none, maybe.



is all a mixture, some  feel important,

others may seem like minor details,

yet part of that whole, that make us, makes

a life.



a small life maybe, yet some of those things

will be remembered.



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.

it has been different
this time. were preparing
for verything, surprised
when words fell away
into ether.

gaseous samples of neutralisation,
realise the decision is made. lasting.

deleting nothing , results the same.

nothing.

sbm.

is a short word in varying degrees.

a slight one, can be alleviated with
unecessary treats, parfum , curling
round in soft places.

lift the spirits with little things, be
glad it is not a more serious form
of the word.

i drove the road yesterday, it
is such a pretty place.

sbm.

can you clamber
through the rocks
slipping into water
oily boots leaking?

can you stride out
over dewy moors
peat bogged
with no direction?

will you come with me
to these places
my spaces
and make history?

will you sit a while
amid the berried hedges,
sheltering,
remembering?

will we shout at the wind,
running, laughing
knowing
that this is ours
for the taking

or

will you stay home,
stay safe

and bleed?

sbm

cracked  window looks at clouds, the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in

all their softness, stunned by light.



sewn curtains stir memories, indicate

a private place to weave and mend

a dream.



here are the items, the installations,

here are the photographs i take

each day. here are the worries

placed in the cupboard, with notes,

for you to read.



sbm.

oh absalom, my son, my son.

cry out,  travel miles to

worship,  purify.



pray for him, the note

says all is disorder.



travel miles to tell those who

cannot hear, nor listen.



yet. if you cannot believe all

that is told, find a place your

own.



never mind the ancestors, absalom

my son.



sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

the same each december, advent .

the lead up. we have a memory or two.



the world goes dark, we teach and learn,

wait  for    light to appear,

with those albeit small birds,

singing.



we have comfort, medieval trees,

the coventry carol.

we drive in the dark.



sbm.

stops me in my tracks.



music.



lightens a hard, an edgy mood.



more important than

other things, i will not mention



here. edited.



music.



punctuates the news,  world

matters,   sound of

elegance ..



repeating .



music.



sbm.

has big lumps, i seem to remember.

i have those and small stuff too.

mother had nutty slack, mixed

with water and other stuff to keep

it going.



can you still get that these days, i had best

google, anthracite was good i feel, and those



briquettes that i thought were for

richer folk.



steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.

the joy of a cosy life, one could say

it is a gift, even though i paid

for it.



sbm.

a younger rock formation isolated among older rocks,           someone who works out differently to others.             an exercise in the way to  view the world. we are all

individual.



as much as this is said as  aid, the performance can do with quite an improvement.



so you gas some,        bomb the others.

mr and mrs do as you will be done by?



look at what you do now, and think about it.

seriously.



sbm.

i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope. #chestercathedral



look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.

wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?

#chestercathedral

it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.

#chestercathedral



pray for them, all is in disorder.

sbm.

have you ever gone back,
that painful journey,
watching swallows dip
as if they had never been away.

staggering the stones
you may find god in
water falling.

echoing all the tears
of your life.

sbm.

these are the shorter days,
darker days, woodsmoke,
apple wood, colours of joy.

believe in the world, that
you can spell first time.

be proud as you point
out where you live, at
all there is.

i go offline a while.

while, all will be well.

sbm

opposite the house. is mowed
regularly, bordered with rose bay willow herb.

pink.

some say a ****, others an herb, yet it is
a useful plant, a stand together in public
space, glow in groups of style and ease.

now september, frothy beards begin to
gentle blow on air, then winter stems
remain.

fireweed.

pink.

i have no photograph.

.

pink.

to die back gracefully or be
strimmed.

sbm.

how can one write here

convey, the lovely day.

thoughts on this

are that we keep it still

inside, to preen and gloat,



quietly

mine to hold, review

at leisure.



yet, i tell this.

it was such a lovely day.



sbm.

the lady with the blue umbrella

is merely a road sign, remember.



until we walk over and find there

is not one.



had difficulty sleeping, thinking.

of you all.

the hurricanes.



thinking of you all.



the genocide.

spelled carefully



you all

at war.



all who are ill,

unease.



i went on the bus, saw the mud

from the festival. talked   to you

who got lost and fed the homeless.



read some road signs elsewhere.



sbm.

can be a difficulty, having

to say that we do not know.

that we have to count, check,

count again.

that we get distracted, disturbed,

by other matters, come back,

miscount.

it is not some thing we can google,

so we have lists, lines and rulers.

when all is done, we sign and date

the work away.

then start again.

sbm.

that is the welsh spelling, guess the english

is hughes shop, where they have many items

of use, substance, for some an entertainment.

various style pins, in various size boxes, folded

cotton handkerchieves, with a separate room

for night and underwear, where the lady will

serve the ladies.

she feels the cod, and he wears winter mittens.

windows are colour coordinated, the clothes

link arms, bed socks abound. fluffy.

this is a most useful place, where one can

buy traditional, hire hats for splendid weddings,

hats will last, with  the marriage, time

will tell.

not visited, please do, it is next to  roberts,

the coffee shop.

both splendid premises. dolgellau.

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

is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?

twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.

shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.

these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.

we came from the sea.

so let us move things about.

cloth by cloth.

sbm.

is crosses. we used to think xisses.

stab the needle .                  threaded.



stitch the cross, tie at the back three

times.                                                 cut.



start again.                 cover the surface.



it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven.   full days of

stitching.



xisses.                                                 crosses.



sbm.

:: plas mawr ::

quietly through the rooms,

feel the history

there.



touch the clothes, the linen.

read about the death plague,

rusty nails cure teeth,

communal bathing frowned

upon,  you guess

what happened there?



touch the peg beams,

teeter the stairs.



i try very hard every day,

cheese helps.



i am on the committee.



waved to bob mending his old car,

coming home..



sbm

even that. the relationship between to two or more

becomes more difficult when one flies solo. depends

what that word means.



i felt a connection with someone next to me when they

laughed at the performance. we came separately. we

never spoke.



is that
symbiosis
ˌsɪmbɪˈəʊsɪs,ˌsɪmbʌɪˈəʊsɪs/.
the benefit?
sbm.

i do not know

what happened really.



i tried very thing,

even #hash tags.



tea bags

and sundry groceries



from londis.



would have tried waffle

dish cloths,



but there was only the blackness

and deep borders.



very every thing

#dontknowwhathappenedhere

sbm.

land or sometimes sea

can be

territory.



people divided.



people drowned.



sbm.

written after the article,

was so before, now becomes

more evident

so you cut off your left hand

or was it your right?          to

own the land.

to dig and grow.



was it wealth you required

or  happy living.             one

handed.



****** mess.



i hear the woodturner

has hurt his finger.



sbm.

surround this area,
live inside. loving
lamps ,damp autumn air.

shadow,               films
with out words, stuttering.

moths, yes i usually write
of moths, now long legs
come into play. outside

planes fly over, estuary
birds call. autumn.

sbm.

seen from the window,
the gate is open.

the grass cutter comes,
spends the day,
into dusk.

the gate is open,
the grave digger
working.

the gate is open this
morning. birds fly.

sbm.

the bear watched.  i see you are packing.



yes.



am i coming?



no.



why?



they would not understand.



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.

made lovely, left ot on the cooling

tray. all  night.



the wildcat came, left a faint smell,

yet did not eat it.



#breakfast.



sbm.

later the day dusks, air cools,

down the back track to the lane.


there is fire in the sky,

why don’t the trees burn?


one cloud hovers, red,

one cloud .

this is a later walk,

early mornings

spent writing.


see the birds roost,

hear the last call,

black bird

this is dusk.

sbm.

probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.

we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
novel.

moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
so,
they will be placed in a box
sometime,  a suitable
one  found.

there is a collection now,
the falling days.

sbm.

i don’t write about gremlins

nor bogies

have done a search

it has not figured in the work yet



i know that my bread is usually buttered

held carefully it does not fall

not anyway down



if i wrote about bogies  they will be under

the bed not

up the nose

at all



some of us may not be so afraid any more

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.

so he came quite early really,

little fuss or bother, drank

his coffee nicely.



#summerhouse



as did the next one, with

news, that is taken positively.



#belling



so we move forward gently, knowing

now , the man that visited every

sunday, will do so

no more.



#timesup

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.

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.

so the lights are fused, upstairs only.

the lamps work, they are plugged

in sockets of course, so that is

a different matter.

unlike anti matter.

so we have a torch, and candles

in the bathroom, which light up

the place nicely. inspires photography.

some videos not shown yet.

the handy man comes once

a month, mostly on a tuesday,

nine thirty till four, he can turn

his hand to most things, as

can i.

yet teetering on a ladder, i have not

the energy to lug the fuses out.

so we wanders in the dark, it can

be a pleasant thing.

we are carefull not to fall the stairs,

having done that before.

wish not to repeat it, interesting

though it was.

sbm.

songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life

the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
small life

driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,


the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

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.

every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.



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.

it seems that in moving the body we can free the mind, from one place to another. slightly out of focus.



time is moving forward.

that is the theory……



sbm.