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over the roof, low
flew above me, hovering.

called the gardener, he came
running. we watched the
red kite.

together.

they used to be rare.

sbm.
late now
an internet outage
so i drove to fetch fuel
early

he said those things…..

i read an article yesterday about the thought process
how it is stories in our heads with the initial i/me

my story is that they are critical
denounce me as a non reader
with out opinion

my thoughts are mine protective
not to be believed, not inflicting

my story is that they think i do not care

it probably only takes one to start it
that is enough

i feel this is a time of change
let us hope it is for good

there is a flower out back
tall and seedy that closes
at night

a bird came down into the stove yesterday again
i let it out
sooty

enjoy the day
Sonja
8.15
sunny
warm
small clouds note
i had the words ready.

a twist of logic.



you explained it all

to me. then the radio

stopped.



you wind the thread backward,

while some move forward.



i saw your picture again.



it means nothing.



sbm.
label your house ready, this is home full of love, that

this is the bathroom, and there is a toilet. label your

life away, grumpy egg again.

force yourself up of a morning, head out in the rain.

remember you were a passenger once,

no  need to park the car.

walk strong, look at the face plain.

know that the donut will work even

with  your heathen tendencies.

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.
ladies

on the bus

pointed to it



a lady bird on the window.



i watched and thought how nice

they noticed and admired it



a while later

she got out a tisuue

and squashed it dead.



she spoke to me, but

i speak a different language



on waiting

the driver said

that too many people think

only of themselves

#thesedays



sbm.
land or sometimes sea

can be

territory.



people divided.



people drowned.



sbm.

written after the article,

was so before, now becomes

more evident
the phone rang
i answered.
she spoke to me about proverbs i agreed that
i might
read
the book
in
the bible.
some argue,
make complications, rebuke.

electronic mailings back, forth,  fourth again.



it is their responsibility, arrangment, role, assigned post.

it is so very important, so difficult.





i phoned the other one, he just said yes.





later i found



the phone at the hotel was busy & they will not ring me back.



they say what goes round , comes round naturally.



at  some point i realised i only have the new testament

given me by a child psychiatrist.



the other testaments are in welsh.

i mostly read english.
i have a new battery

so things come more

comfortable

without

the  timely pressure

as before

i went to see

tutankhamun’s

things

well some of them

then to oxford to

see some more

yesterday went

writing

today i work

and meanwhile

a yearning for a quiet day

while i expect on said quiet

day

will work
it is a clear word

as water pure and bouncing

off rocks



a bird





or

messing about



remembering #

days mud building dams

fighting the tide

pushing back years



running the path

fighting for freedom



then it comes

unexpected

like

the lark



bird



sbm.
the questions came that i cannot answer here   or

ever.



did not count this time only the final one.    then

noticed the first ones  are now undone. the wrong

knots.



tomorrow  go back to mend them.     perhaps i do

not want this to end. do not wish to move on from

here.



this is another year and we are quieter now.



sbm.
a steamer

paddled through the waters

off the island     last summer



excited i arrived too early

so did everyone else



we chatted

a  steam veteran

he advised

a seat, i complied



yet



when the paddles turned i left

& leaned the sides with the others

to watch



the waverley move
“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.”
tried to persuade him to leave the bed.

nice clean sheets today. no, i am staying

in the raggled mess .



like our government



you know of such things, and what about

the laundry man, he comes tomorrow.

he will be disappointed.



send the cover, keep it clean so no one

notices the mess underneath.



isn’t that what  they
do?

isn’t it?



yes.



sbm.
always liked newtown,
now seeing the peripheries.

not been to glansevern, now
i have.

never had a red dress
made of paper cloth,
now i have two.

the same. i have not a
photograph yet,
so will shoes do?

sbm.
resting on one a while.

very early here, news came, so
now we lay  a while, to hope
it will alleviate the gloom from
those who have no manners, no
style and niceties. i will draw on
the experience, while others
bomb empty houses.

it is a gold award for drawing.

moon boats.

‘ i did not wish to die, my son’

sbm.
learning designers, two yesterday,
alongside history of weaving,
scouring the wool or fulling?

we have many questions. we
have the excitement about the
wool museum, pleasure for the chair
given secretly.

i was at work.

it is a gift, we say this over.

i think of middle mill, the field
and flowers.

we all think of many things, best
to write some down carefully.

sbm.
seemed  a long break,

plans and intrusions,



with rain.



they cut the trees, let

the light in.



i watched,

took photographs.



made a path where they

dragged the wood.



got bitten.



it is raining now.

heavily.



she sings while she lays the table.



sbm.
the bear watched.  i see you are packing.



yes.



am i coming?



no.



why?



they would not understand.



sbm.
she read the leading
line over.

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.

the play never ends.

sbm.
they left the group

took off and flew.



flight was not sustained.



hovering over past demeanors



faltered, landed carefully



in disappointment, hugging,

affirming it did not matter.



yet it did.
ran out yesterday

lost you completely with the pattern in the sky

the leaves on the oak

on the mountain.       i lost you





you left the group

took off and flew



flight was not sustained

hovering over past demeanors

faltered

landed carefully



in disappointment hugging

affirming it did not matter



yet it did
leaving heysham

looking for a legacy i find nothing

no words no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side can be painful /

some hide secrets



five

pound discount on the lorry



explorers do not really need fancy notebooks





goods wrapped mainly in plastic the invention must have seemed a good idea

the sun came &

shadows lasted only a short time



it was quite a shock  that there are no boxes left

only those of a different size

quite a shock your anger that leapt from nowhere



of course it does not matter
yet with that and the moon how can one sleep

how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong  shape and emotions rise

do me a favour and know it was a favour looking for boxes

foundation for these days
hard work won
there is another way with privacy and organisation
industry
leave things simple leave things be a while
oversight and overland travel

i was asked a couple of weeks ago if i looked out for the lorries would i describe
no not any more
yet the bridge is small and narrow seems room for two to pass

i took the other road wondering why the block  saw the burned ground
fuller cloud
looked down on the tower
went home alone

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
an idea.

the work continues. red thread and all that abounds there.

the museums.



much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely.


linen threads hang heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready. shall we mend the rags,

or pin them ?



remnants remain, hiding. working faster with out all those words, those images . bare bones of the fact

corrupted items  turn with dust.



stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed. work along the coast with thread and diligence.



sbm.



(thanks to the asmolean  and jen jones quilt centre for the prompts)
foundation for these days. hard work won.                 there

is another way with privacy and organisation.       industry .





leave things simple,

leave thing be a while.



oversight and overland

travel.                 the dead    depress.



overlook; i see the old horizon still.



planes flies over, one then two       we

can hear them from the window. over

there his story  repeats                 itself.



over sight me, over look you. there are

many of us.



legion.



sbm.
There are no records left; I asked them.

The probation officer arranged it, he was helping my brother. My trip may have been unofficially organised.

I was taken to meet the lady, I remember her name, her home clearly. Mum kitted me out in hand knitteds, summer and lace up shoes. I was shocked by the latter; I aways had straps.

I may have been 6 years old; there is no record.

We went on the bus , cook and I, to the small cottage hotel, Lelant by the sea. A bus ride from St. Ives, a short walk down the hill to the beach to play.

My host went shopping, introducing me to her friends, and worrying over my hair. The hairdresser suggested that cutting was not the answer and I was provided with a dark green ribbon, shiny, wide and expensive. I imagined the cost.

The food was unlike any I had known, just tomato soup, scones with cream that left my tastebuds traumatised. I liked the boiled eggs; I was used to them. Cook looked after me kindly and understood, told me to say. The gardener suggested that as I must pass through the kitchen garden to school, I may eat as much fruit as I liked. I did.

I liked the little school, made friends. The laceups were a great succes as I could walk on my toes, like a ballet dancer. The soles were thick. Friends were made and one girl lent me her woollen bathing costume to bathe in the estuary. It sagged when wet; my self esteem lowered.

Adding here that at that age who knew of self esteem? We just felt bad.

I was given the sweetest little bedroom in the roof, all dolls and dormers. They took away my comforter, and it seems then I walked in my sleep. Moved downstairs to the piano room where no stairs could harm me, I felt unsettled.

Yet the days moved nicely. There were little troubles, nothing to diminish the beauty of it all.

The day came when I was sent home, I guess it was agreed; there are no records. I had wanted to stay, and I still feel guily for that.

My family met me from the bus, laughed at my accent and threw the ribbon away.

Weeks later I found it ***** in the lane, and kept it, hid it.

Years later I went back. In the museum, met a man who recognised me. We were then in our fifties, and he said I looked the same.

I am not the same. There are no records.

I never was a ballet dancer.

sbm.
leon. i borrowed your apron many years ago.



i still have it and just remember you, your darkness.



it was good news from the bad, i could have lost

you all so quickly.



i am drawing trees today.



sbm.
leonard wrote in medieval rhyme, a scrivener,

fond of the waltz, too.

i shall learn to. and wear a river’s disguise

water’s way.



shall we not see thee dancing?



i shall walk in the way and you may call us dancing

meandering thoughts, consequences, a pas de deux

many may see us dance, few will hear the music

. in and out of season.





sbm.
mine, also
has
become a stranger.

how strange.

i often do not sleep,
so have decided
it is not a
problem.

there is always
another world
out there,
that is not ours.

i like mine.

i like your writing.



sbm
it has been a while since we spoke.

even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.

some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.

it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.

i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.

even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?

it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.

all things pass.

i shall occasionally write, and never send.

no contact.

narcissus.

sbm.
nice message thank you.

yes I shall like to get to know your friends more, they are welcoming.

i like them. there is something special , the more I know her.

have a good time in oswestry, it is a pretty place.

hope your wrist improves.


sbm.
lightly     gently    sweetly you touched my spine

your face no picture

slowly    gradually       eventually you killed me

one shot to the chest

now

it is healing

cared fully



with silver
she implied  that the buttoned ones,

were far superior to plain, some folks

folded newspaper to keep the chill at bay.

small girls wore thermogene, now

all is tee shirts, being chilly, but then

most have central heating, a few cling

to the coal fire, woodburners,

living flame.

proper vests were warm, tucked well in.

if you visit llandudno by the sea, you

still find these items, displayed quite

badly some may say, so we refer back to

those with buttons,  which may be better.

it was such a lovely morning.

sbm.1111
would want to be here alone,
wander the books and paintings,
use resources quiety, not guarded.

yet we came together nicely to share
experience, information, cheesecake
and pastries.

black book of carmarthen on diplay
from hengwrt, a
neighbouring house.

some books are tied,
some have no labels.

there was a draught
at the national library of wales.

sbm.
all the novels, and romance.

volume two to forty.
all others being
fakes
that need dusting.

the clocks,
no ticking, no sound.

soft sands of time
stand still.

the glass is clouded here.

it is an old place,
which shuts in winter.

sbm.
remember days before food waste,

scraps for  dog,  cat maybe

some pig.



sitting until my plate was clear,



hash. tag rationing.



peelings were taken down

the garden by the rhubarb buckets

or

aunt olive made wine from that

with tea dregs.



he came every other day, pig man as

it was acceptable in those days.



when

there was no food waste .       mum

darned socks



sbm.
requested for christmas,

it is the run up, you know.



passed  the idea by him,

verdict, boring, well it was

bound to be that or, wierd.



i told him it is beautiful, that

i love richard parker and

and a classic

animated character. I gave

him the message, i found

waiting.



his message to me is

cherry pie, so i stopped in

tesco, bought one for

tea.



it is a life of pie.



sbm.
yes the theatre was good
who done it now we
know who done it
yet the culprit swore
us all the secrecy

it is the longest running
here
a mouse trap

hope all the kittens came well
thet you are over run with cuteness

i stayed away a while and we rode
the narrow guage as always there
and back again

as always

then up the lake fishing
saving imaginary folk
with a rope then bound
him up happily

while he remained that way
an hour or so and no one
blinked

we made reed boats and caught two tiddlers

we placed them back of course
we don’t eat meat nor fish
yet the ice melts

it is all a worry
which i will not clarify

let you feel it is just
ice



i am glad it was nothing serious
and that there will be funds for an engine



6.48 am
glad of my lot
wished better for others
Secrecy.

Felicity quietly enters the water

to drown .



Secretly he  had been watching. Dives in to save her.

Pulling her back to shore, her wide mouth screaming.



Sincerely he resuscitates her



wide mouth on wide mouth



Secretly she enjoys it.
they say she knitted till she left, sat up in bed.

others met in london, neither happy,
moved back to wales.

blanket stitch, small dogs, told
my story, in batches, the stitches
punctuating.

words now.

words of life, words of wonder
that these things happen.

sbm.
..light aircraft..



did i tell you a small plane flies over each day?

sometimes higher that the day before

i watch it
we all used to watch it
now
i watch it

so i fixed the phone
and found the message

and the past caught up with me
the circle turned again

i should feel a thing within
i do not

i stand and watch the plane

(really, oh really)



1234
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.

cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.

shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.

wipe your nose clean.

sbm.

today we have added notes for your interest.

A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.

The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.

Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
. light bulbs, cotton hankies .
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.

shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.

wipe your nose clean.

sbm.

today we have added notes for your interest.

A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.

The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.

Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
we have a clean white bed, slept late,

a shock to break the ritual. a treat

on a major scale. probably ten.



i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.



feel the textures, the threads, know that when

all things are sad, there is a happiness to be

found, in these places.



in the ribbon she gave me, in the thoughts,

the gestures from friends, their aknowledgement

of who i am.



. it has been a happy time.



sbm.
winter light leaves
round the bend trees bears golden,
the horse chestnuts lose first.
bus in front turns left, I slow, drive home.

my photograph is buried it in damp earth.

light leaves.
some thing is changing here,

so slight it can hardly be

noticed.



yet it has been.  a feeling,

came with the light rain .



the quietness



all things are changing,

by now we shall know it,

as

all things change.



we cannot alter.



that is the constant.



sbm.
just one day left to write on  purple

for no particular reason except it is

suggested.



one day left to remember the    lilac

he wished was white, and then it was

so.



one day today to change the colour

of blood.



purple is family, the colour of walls ,

time of remembrance.



lavender will not grow here, the soil is

not appropriate.



sbm.
it was quite a while



then while travelling she noticed

an interest in cattle.knowing little

noted their shapes and patterns.



mentioned the farmers yesterday

most in rugged vehicles

dogs barking



one in a saloon car, the passenger

kind



full of food stuff



for cattle.



she wondered at the white ones

on her way home.



sbm.
it was you that made me do it

think back

and wonder if it could have

been different.



it could have

been better.



except it is what it is,

and was just what it was.



i do not expect to time travel

i do not expect a change in history

any time

soon.



she said that we were young then.

i do not remember that i think

i always felt older



i did not ever feel that young thing

except that day with you at sea

when after

they all shouted at me.



come away with me to lindisfarne
thread bare.



nap worn                           the                 warp threads show through.



sounds sweet, none of this plush and sensuous end.            bones

of it.                           roots of it.                                 linen at the birth.

the death.



who needs  descriptive dialogue?                       we have imagination.



show me a photograph.

we see different things.



sbm.
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