. i need permissions .

to show you the pianist,
who played, red, from
her own design.
came together
with me and the dancer.

to start, later we will
continue,

shapes, the sound
and movement,

while no one is looking.

used what we had,
passed from one to the other,
quite a lot of red,
things.

it is a collaboration.

the piano had been idle.

until the pianist came.

steinway.

all there in the installations.



go back to the museum,

where it all started , cabinets,

labels to define, another way.



gradually reailisation came,

that we have been here before.



collecting seeds, objects of desire,

then in our gratitude remake.



this is the falling day, the childhood

way.



this is an idea.



sbm.

hospital bag.

the things

the memory.



yours?



i spent some of it

yesterday in heaven

i wish i wrote like you guys, wish it were more direct.



it has been noted as abstract, yet i cannot see that.



he wanted a garden, this one. we  looked

at other houses, he wanted this one.



with

a garden as seed for the future.



when he died i let it grow and hid here. now

i tidy , grow seeds for the future.



sbm

. red thread .



we did not know  the red thread of fate,              tied readily .

tied with inevitable red  or                       ****** rags again.

a meditation on thread, mediation of red,    i dream of you.

clearly your clothes remain the same, worn,           washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different.



be well in your mending, despite the pain,    raddled cotton .



pin  to hold life again.









The two people connected by the red thread are destined , regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmates or a destined flame.



(notes for Morrigan, May the first cabinet be locked, the second also, yet leaving the red key in, please?)

Room Two.



. Bound.



comfort bound in       clean                                                       linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



what else will you expect of me             . that, mis spellings or rags.



you see, i say it means nothing.   leather bound, broken, words lost



in boxes.





notes.



:: bound ::

    tied; in bonds: a bound prisoner.
    3.
    made fast as if by a band or bond: She is bound to her family.
    4.
    secured within a cover, as a book.
    5.
    under a legal or moral obligation: He is bound by the terms of the contract.
    6.
    destined; sure; certain: It is bound to happen.



Room Three.



.Crossing.



carefully you  drew crosses on my skin.   i looked at you ‘ kisses?’  no, you said,  crosses……



notes.



i have been asked about secrets, secrets, that I should not tell, and I tell you that I have been kissed truly kissed, and the tear tore my face, a water stripe, dipped in agony and love for you that must be a secret you said, you said, so I will write it here and print it, and print it, and dip it in wax, the kiss.i have been asked



Room Four.



. Stitching.



i have done this,      when all else are asleep,



stitching, thinking,         listening to the rain.





then  the voices                               stopped.



cover  the surface . that stitching can be

rhythmic,



and never mind the capitals. clever words

confound.

the littled dress sewn quietly with love.







we have  many more rooms  to describe…….

i don’t think so

he is innocent, some say naive

it is you and you that thought another meaning

heads full of dope and chloroform with silly

verse



maybe you are  actors with erratic scenes

so he cannot speak to you for laughing

at the glint in your eyes regular



perhaps you will go wild swimming together

in the dyfi

i often drop in when i am passing on my way

up northish. the conwy valley.   he always asks

if i am surviving.



i try to say just yes, while thinking of the titanic.



or  thinking that



i do not make it for money, and have several

pensions.



i just say yes,



i am surviving.



they are nice lads, work hard to survive.



#titanic.



sbm

in scarborough

we saw richard wilson

but no one believed us





we looked for god in york

amongst the money changers

he had gone outside

with the music





in whitby we played boats

pirates the next day

and all the while we were changing

thinking of herrings and eating nuts



she caught a small thing

tiny tiny mouse

ate it

but the bitter entrails remain.

nasty



she could have let it go

seems to me you caught on
**** quick

it is good to feel organised
in control
even though we are not
ultimately

naturally

yes have had company
now i miss it
am in transition

drinking tea

the thunderstorm
was grand i think
the pressure leaves
me with an headache

as does the politics
here
and
there

later than usual
which does not
matter today

it will tomorrow

early

There will be a cotton hankie and a bag of beach combed pieces.

Some are very tiny so I tips them onto something white to see. Set up is lining them into rows onto the hankie. I make up categories for the rows and use even the tiniest bits too.

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.

take the photograph
of the photograph,
we have chinese whispers.

we have the closing of the
house soon, wonderland.

removing all things metal,
placing sweet chestnuts
in corners. the outside
paint so very shiny,

interiors.

sbm

busy these days.

fade. place into boxes.
political now.

hope the comments come shorter.

blasting . confine their fragile
history. while
outside they bleed.

a man helps another man,
another picture.

there is one pin left
for comfort. and
i am no younger.

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.

as opposed to funny, we are constantly relocated.



looking into suitcases and meeting places, we find

another idea.



amusing as opposed to



witty.



hide away, nice as opposed to the

opposite.



isn’t it?



sbm.

in time

i will leave you six

items,



like he said.



five you say you want,

one to mend some things.



the bear, the other bear,

the others plus

a pin.



encapsulated.



sbm.

there is plenty of time to walk from town,

to give an opinion whenever requested.



there is time to talk, and receive gifts. make



time to buy some ready. it has been said before

that these are falling days. look at the wild seeds

and know that as splendid as you are, that



you are  one of many.



there is still time.



sbm.

so we nipped into town yesterday.


again, on proper business no slacking.


though i have to say that i did linger

with a friend, discussed the jewelled mirror,

the state of play with gifts and those bibelows,

. we talk of them again that day. meanwhile

life continues badly for some here, while others idly

shop. we discover cotton gloves, another time.


scrabble for the juniors, who  make up their own

words, have a larger vocabulary than seven.


pink hanbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.


we discussed correcting the till

error, decided it may just confuse, then

carried on our separate ways.


again.  this is dolgellau.


sbm.

so flimsy it is hardly there.

so worn, it is almost dead.
recreate the dying in your head.

so small it is hardly there.

so cheap it is almost dead.

draw it. recreate the scene in your head.

it is said that some folk do not draw properly
any more. discuss.

when all is fading, is it necessary?

no particular answer is required. maybe a thought,
here and there.

sbm.

oddly rhymes with posterity

austerity

the irony

how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools



take the thing then
harden it.

they say it will last a lifetime

hold its own
tradition

in the cold frozen

the code will not work,

nor will the counting with interruptions

austerity rhymes

with irony

not posterity

there is a hole in the ground

it was not there yesterday



there is a tear  in my vest

which is  really new too



one day the phone works and

the next day it doesn’t



all things gets broke

don’t work



you can mend them now

not buy new



remember how he mended your mother’s plate

for the memory,      souvenirs can come cheap

the glue showed brown on drying            now

it becomes habit, a signature dish



it was suggested i have a little shop

to sell the twigs and badly mended

things



seriously why not

these also have a value



then the car worked yesterday

now it does not



it is a hole unlike any other

it appeared overnight and while i am small

i can  try,  take my time to  fill it up again



with earth and other things

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.   does this mean it is spring soon?



i did not know you, yet when  i saw that you were gone too,                                            i felt sadly.



i stood and looked at the blackthorn trees.



black bird sings early, the same bird calls late .                                                      drown darkness.



&





small things shelter.                                       there is much to research, decide to believe or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with a hyphen.                       there are watermarks left.



the lime kilns are empty now, yet the mass remains, the wonder at the shape.       ( spring



will.)







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.

we opened the door, closed a while and found the old nails

ancient rusty loved them kept them for the ages

who else will like rusty nails?

well

he did those huge hand made ones from the garden



it has been a long time coming

it lasted many years now is gone

all of it

all the straight ideals and weathered work.

who will come laughing now   who else loves rusted nails  & reddened eyes?

plans change

partially due to the weather

state of the roads



is that blood on the towel dear

or is it rust?

or the repetition,
that excites the mind,
small notes on paper.

torn from the rest,
simply with the rule.

metal makes a straighter line,
rags to edge the word.

these words are mine.

seeds
fall.

sbm

she said hello, smiled.                                                        i smiled back with no regret.



the books are left tied tightly.





woke up to see the shy pink. clouds.



we stood together working pushing rags through to make things neater. others searched the lines, the crossing, looking for reincarnations.                               we thought they were sheltering from the rain.



another day of vinegar soaked words. another play on keys, as we drift through           winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom, early, yet while light lingers later,   we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear the last bird call.



give things to some one else, will they fall upon flesh, rip it, rearrange,    leave to sleep? maybe it were their rags.                                            or handle with care, small eggs hold with love, rearrange tenderly.



?

. it seems the work is cupboards. cabinet makers.



sbm.

island monkeys could not

go abroad



no boat

no plane no nothing



sadly they read books on other countries

with adventues, himalayas & ranuph fiennes



chattering

looking for ideas

researching kon tiki expedition

looked for something to float



& found a wheelbarrow

i searched for serviette here
with small success, some years
back i discovered it too
how the ink soaks backand made a thing of it
i like it when things happen

in my head i hold a list
of things to do that seem
like magic
to me

it was one from costa and i think
is in my other files
you know

now social distancing
more than usual

costa

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.



need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps

us safely, moves us onward.



have faith in good and pleasant ways.  be kind to the one next to you.        he was still

laying down and mumbling.



‘why have you not shared that one about belief ?’     i think i forgot.

‘did anyone read it?’   i don’t know.   he slipped back to sleep holding

the rags.

it was nice to sit quiet, watch the shaking, the belief in all those things.

good to hear the voice raised at the back.



sbm.

if i were at home today,

i would light the fire

ready

for the day.



i am coming to meet

you from the train,

the railway line

along the coast.



we will drink tea,

and i will show you

the brooches.



sbm.

today.

unlike yesterday.



is your head clear today, loose limbs, while

mild air floats above.



will you go the other way, as you did

yesterday?



it can still be achieved each day, with or

without.



it will be easier today.



there is a light mist.            here.



sbm.

‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’



sbm

i don’t often go in. i only went to see the back, the upper room.

area.    i noticed the creeping plant outside, walked to the door.



went in.

the cat came in.



i thought there would be lilies. there was just a few of the usual

sort, daisy types.



i left, the cat came

after.



my boot scraped the moss from one on the slabs

to see the name.



william evans.



sbm.

a family name with two parts,
yet what it has to do with
guns , heaven knows.

there is a hotel designed
around that shape, apparently.

looks out to sea.

some times one wonders about the fuss,
and worry, when.

it is only a privet hedge.

sbm.

it is a gift, the friend ship, the kiss

on each cheek with out avoidance.

it may seem continental, yet we are

dolgellau. it is a meeting place, yes,

near the church. there are similarities,

yet this is not a metaphor.

we met at ten, talked of family,

one hour led to two, and overstepped

the parking time.

later in the garden, i thought of you.

i cut the paths and thought of you too.

it is a gift.

sbm.

it is a gift, the friend ship, the kiss

on each cheek with out avoidance.

it may seem continental, yet we are

dolgellau. it is a meeting place, yes,

near the church. there are similarities,

yet this is not a metaphor.

we met at ten, talked of family,

one hour led to two, and overstepped

the parking time.

later in the garden, i thought of you.

i cut the paths and thought of you too.

it is a gift.

she gave me this. a new one.



it will not replace the old one,

yet will be loved.



as i loved you, and when i lost you,

kept it private, still do.



i miss you.



this is another gift.



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.

occuring at a favourable time. a time that was requested.



it is opinion. it could be that things happen any when; we

could be pleased.



do you remember when the ship went down.? all

were saved. this makes a happy ending.    ending

the story.

while in port glasgow it says that

port glasgow

has an

old man’s club.



official.



ship building.



&



jesus changes lives for good.



sbm.

you can come any time,ask me any thing.

i do not have an answer.i can talk about materials,
the way of my making, how it came to be here, how

everything is connected. I can make you a drink
if i remember, a little frangipane that i did not
make.

we can talk about solomon, the last boats, hair for lockets,
you can tell me of your work, for i am interested.

it costs nothing to come, to visit the studio, study
that within yourself with clear sight, know that we are
indeed the fortunate ones here.

we have a home.

sbm.

door



dark/ we painted it

all vaguely national

trust



it has been damp & sticks

we kicks

it to open



the old shows through the cracks



sbm.

i am short without magnification. with electrical

notes & other  insignificant items .  did i tell

the story of my life;  i asked before.



i cannot say. there is no principle character

no more.



not since yesterday.

read the script, i am not mentioned.



at all.



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

today

and

every year you die again

all of you



this year feels good

yet still you die again



all of you



it is damp again

today

now it is delivered,
it can be written of.

beware the glass, it rattles.
beware the clever words.

at the mill the cloth is heavy,
hard. the assistant cuts carefully.

the looms are working
here.

sbm.

the rain is come again, lightly.

we have sewing to be done.



red thread.

never measured. severed

with teeth,it leaves a groove,

she said. the dentist will know.



red thread.



you will know too.



it is a christian festival, did you know?



sbm.

they say, and close the stores.

it is complicated, to do

with floor space and employees

rights. we had chocolate eggs,

worked hard, let our arms loose.

warmer now, the sun shone,

peple came, visited, smiled,

fondled the wool, spoke of age

and weaving. he said there

were many looms in his day.

he is eighty eight, he told me

many times.

sbm.

it is a dusty lane, as requested.

new flight taken, wildly singing, in all directions,

while we mowed,            while the ants invaded.

as i knelt,            the grave digger came down

again. it is about time,                          he said,

laughing.

tethered the horses at the gate,

then the farrier came.

it is my brother’s birthday

today.

sbm.

it is a source of inspiration,
and research. it is written, yet
having writ. we use. imagination,
add a dose of suggestion, slightly
thinking this is fact we do not move
on
when
perhaps we should.

so moving on quickly we read the account
which is quite brief.

remember the voices.

know that caiaphas was just a man.

it will continue, good men die.

sbm.

writing stuff, not physically,
curled up in the big settee.

opened the window behind me,
talked to pretoria, prettily.

not hard work, packing stuff,
to go, unless big and unwieldy.

midsummer yesterday, it was
not difficult to see it through, warm
and sunny.

dreaming of war tired me.

yellow star houses.

sbm.