much of the time is spent with this

or other things which pass the day

nicely.



use the brain. remembering strong

wrapping paper in folded sheets.



woolworths.



i have a modern roll that tears

easily, yet now continue the theme

of recycled, flattened yet stil creased,

tied with inevitable red thread or ******

rags

again.



each year in the afterwards

we would iron the paper flat

ready.



the years go round.



sbm.

black topics.

cause and effects,
the butterfly’s wing.

so here on the night watch,
all is quiet , no birds sing.

touched by the small thing,
softly, we drew together,
with words, and gestures
in air, in mind.

touched by the old things
i draw and weave
the ways of night.

upload the black heart,
later.

i write, edit, delete.
words here,
you cannot see,
do they leave a trace,
tell me.

do you sense their meaning,
and the rhyme,
are there codes
between the lines.

is there something
in words not said,
or is it here,
as clear,
as day.

when it comes..



sbm.

maybe connections are missed

the link dismissed.





metaphors faint as my flimsy

whispers



symbols



do you deny me peace?



perhaps you utter the words

constantly?



look closely





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

while i was gardening this morning,

the voice in my head said ‘ten years

ago, you had just died’.



the other voice replied,

‘ and you are still alive..’



sbm.

that late evening,

slip into dusk,

the last blackbird singing.


that idle if not in

gainful employment.


there are thoughts

that are randomly baleful,

or so mediocre

need reviving.


to get on with the day,

despite this deluge

is the answer?

sbm.

it is all here, if you look for it.


we all went to the castle

to say our piece, in pieces,

some of peace and blessed love,

other words, sheer beauty in light

projected.



i said my peace, hugged,

i walked to see the garden finches,

caged.



it is all here,

if you look.



sbm.

i have written of them before,
now in code and symbol, i regard,

that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence,
that familiarity does not always mean
contempt , yet continuity.

autumn comes round, and we keep
the litte things, again.

twigs.

sbm.

the bikes are moved, down to the old
pigstye, by the toilet.

plenty of room, once
it was tidied.

shed was rummaged, everything
put in line, most things
remembered.

few things dumped, while others are washed
and ironed.

slowly, there may be room for the piano.

visitors came, talked of art and signatures.

they did not know the shed is tidy now.

sbm.

people used to be at home officially,

provide invitations, wait for teas,

the convenient cake.



in another world, i am at home,

invitation revoked,

no need for refreshment. then.



yet the friends shall come, needing no formal,

notifications or redemptions.


it will be a pleasant day, as the hills

go down, many tremblous things

abound.


while all the while you stay quiet,

boxed, fading into your own silence.


i left the note by the clock, the calling card.

sbm.

have come from london, to
stay a while. i remember you
brymbo man.

profanities in town caused
ears to bleed, and where it was
a market town, now it all all
charity and coffee shops. places

change, while the egyptian things
remain so fine.

we gasped at the empty space.

sbm.

so i got home,and the wind yesterday has blown some of the leaves away….

taken the holly wreath down  there and surprised to find I was crying.
( ah when you are under the weather things get to you……)
it will be nice to see you. the early days are hard especially this time of year.
your hat has turned into quite a project. i took it to mill to get darning wool,and it was pointed out that lots of the holes are indeed eyelets, and what a splendid hat it is.
also spoke of leaf bags and she said that if one have had the bags a while they will start to degrade…..
how much needs mending?
sbm.

while all around is breaking,
hold on to the inner core,
strong centre that helps us dance,
strictly.

remember unwritten rules of
etiquette renumbering the you,
after the queue. take your turn.

wait in line, it will turn up in
the lower drawer,
sleep on it like the cat.

today will draw the shoes
for erasure and carry on regardless.





the copper beech is leafless now.

sbm.

used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.

qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
collected.

salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.

i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.

rummer godden.

sbm.

run in parallel lines, find words have no control. the lake on the other hand, padded , dark through medieval floating green. a day of shifting gravity, i wonder to slip

in gracefully,

after diving nicely

clear eyes ,

bound throat.

remember the cold ness of the day.

glow in groups of style and ease. now.

die back gracefully or be
trimmed?



sbm.

so there will be a delay,       yet the work will continue.



we shall think of you fondly, as we think of our own past,

our misdemeanors.



how the shapes fit together, somewhat randomly and form

the creatures we are today.



there is no reason, no purpose to it all. just us. you and me,

christine.



sbm.

yes in the summer the tourists come from the coed y brenin trail, they do not have bells

i buy my wood from the farmers’ supplies , it smells good

i have coal too i like a fire, it sounds nice. it is company
sbm.

irregular, you came, your best clothes shining.   never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics.   the kindness that is.



he said. machine you see.   glass reflecting.            slowly it starts repeating.   the walls of differing colours.  we have the dvds.                                          on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.



back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we  amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones,            maths divides and decimates others.



1.2



repeating.



sbm.

wrap the house around you,

then                            leave it.



out into the only world you

know.



anxiety comes with           the

unfamiliar.



they call down the chimney.



reminding us that some things



stay the same.



sbm.

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothng is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

sbm.

is against thee , or for thee. we are all individuals.



he said.



i present thee a truth,                         you see a lie.



look to history.



so i shall make a case, produce the evidence.



medical notes, broken glass. we cannot find

the gun.



christine.



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.

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.

it is quite an obscure book,
the mouse and his child
by russell hoban, some
of you will have heard
of it.

pictures by lillian hoban,
perhaps a relative.

the photo is of r.k.narayan,
breaks a rule
so this may be deleted.

this is an installation, a
love of old things.

some members will be sad
today, and we shall
empathise.

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

during the day, sun shining,

is this spring, or summer

now? clearing the debris,

painting it white.

birds gather, as the

radio plays.

we dance in the greenhouse.

sbm.

light catches, water clears,
we stood at the bridge
and looked, all of us.

men in suits came, stood
quiety, watched the water
clear.

some left after, went back
to there usual lives. the otter
stays in his place.

clear water.

sbm.

there are enough bell jars now,

there are five in differing stances,

to protect, delight, and make



the things look reasonable.



there are enough bottles,

stuffed with stuff,

to fill the cabinet,

to hide in rooms.



rooms that are grand

beyond your life, protected.



enough rag is gathered,

so all is needed

are labels.



and lists.



sbm.

could count the hour,

would stay safe.



yet the feeling overcame

on passing  blind sheds,

beautiful fields.





filled with buttercups.



hide your eyes here, hide your eyes

when leaving.



suddenly i may greet you,

that feeling.



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.

i dread the cold,

and as i write the words

the fear deepens



fear the ground

will slip

and the bones

will

ache as i walk

the frozen.



fear of falling,

breaking,

and losing

the soft words

of my life

saving the year.

ants on the bridge,
words on the air.

the quiet palace
swarming.

look to the garden,
see the change in the year.

sbm.

maybe not such a good idea,
it may feel fenced in, surrounded.

yet we lean on it, dicuss the time of day,
avoiding price on fish.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of burying. he borrows electricity
a while, while i tidy up, hang out washing.

i miss my company,  went out walking.

no one came this time.

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.

or did you mean mouth.


did you mean you do not like me,

like my garden, i do not understand.


i wrote moth, yet misunderstood,

maybe a typo, yu are good at those,

and miss spellings.


is it because fingers fly, that

we think of the content, not the making.

time is the essence, while

moths stay quiet.

sbm.

made of cloth, for bandages, curls.

ribbons as is the fashion now.



rags for bandages, cut finger, wrapped,

tied a knot.



rags rolled in the war, women who

lost their sons, their brothers, pinned.



the pins that did not mend.

rags of clothes worn in poverty,

and art.



remember the rag and bone man. some of you,

nothing wasted. i tie your gift.



sbm.

the evidence is here.



the water boatmen, long tailed

****, the state of the tide,

other misdemeanors.



i dreamed of japan, woke

assunder, messages

broke.



i made a bottle, then

the witnesses came.



it was quiet day in the studio.





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.

will not do, really,
it may have to be wood,
from ikea
after all.

he made do with cardboard
boxes, sticky tape
for sound,
another room.

i have news of mrs ciano,
looking well, in the old hotel.

i cannot get there
to see her.

history.

sbm.

it is the manual of scores
and your original ideas
amongst the other tasks
today.

today.

today i hand write
to swansea with
embellishments
of my own choice,
unless i get
bogged mentally.

if the latter is the case,
we shall walk and
eat blackberries.

sometimes i get stuck to the protection.

sbm.

so it is in sun shine,

early evening, window open,

dust rises.



slanted light, dog lays,

weary.



a day of small things,

slowly steadily worked.



a day of fledglings,

a tiny song.



as we rest the dust motes,

shine as gold.



remember this……..



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.

hot fitful evening.
wine and itching skins.

enigmatic man. again continued
the interview. good teeth, skin aging well
despite the sun.

he answered questions
beautifully, mysteriously sayng,
that he could say nothing
about most things.

he may have been
a spy, for the cia.

it is the royal welsh
tomorrow.

sbm

did you say passe partout?  did you say alone  in this corner?



i have been to ireland recently, took my documents,           my bag

and passport.



it is another country.



we were away a week and on returning felt slightly low.  lower

now since the article.                the helicopter crash up the road.



can you imagine?



they were going

to ireland too. they

never got there.



(  written  with respect )



the roads are still closed,

i just drove past.      been

to buy plants.



it was a red one.



sbm.







daily post : passport

demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the  words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is  a small hope to always return home.
sbm.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

seem more gentle than others,
despite the storm.

despite the words that are lost
to sound of  winds
battering. windows rattling.

we spoke,  all comes clear
in time, with waiting, baiting
breath, fortitude, cups of tea.

they will light lanterns, burn fires
for the darkness, while some
mornings rise gently.

the third of november.

sbm.

. the charm .


passed over by accident, the
thing occured naturally,
without clerics. without beatitude.

given by friendship, yet
piety slowly eroded.

they come now with learning,
holding large words, a different language.

the charm now gone,
perhaps they did not need it any more.

once again, it is said, that,
they speak latin.

sbm.

the bootlace came loose.

bending to tie, see the cow

standing.



the first lane to pentre.



then

the farmer , the calf.

all greet each other

then skip on the way.



some to the field, one down the back lane,

where water flows, where wild things grow.



it feels needed while sun shines, to see

all these things.



sbm

it used to be quicker,
round the block, waving
to bob. he has a new car
now.

you should see it.

now we take photographs,
eat blackberries and wind
our mouths with damsons.

people bring chairs by the river,
we sit on logs, play fishing.

men come fishing,
ask, if we are from the village.

we say yes, think of the movies,
hitchcock, birds, & children.

we have the latter two,
we have the dog, we have


the days.

sbm.

it is nearly september.