drawing slowly, carefully, a minute line,

not as in hours, as in tiny,   little marks

which mean EVERYTHING and nothing.



that is nil, please do not misunderstand,

yet how can you when i keep    dropping

letters.



when everyone is so different from each

other. so we must care and respect some

rules, forget the others.       it may be the

quality

of the lines.



that supports us.





sbm.

when the fog clears we creep back into the garden

watch birds eat wettened crumbs.       softly leaves fall



each year  mist falls an        anniversary physically fed



on sleep we meet



.



&





you are gone & you are gone



again



no parallel lines

it rains here most of the week
my respite after drying off being
the stove and an old film or an
anime

things have not worked out as
we hoped; so we will carry on

as we have carried on before
while the music plays. he told

me about his condition and i
was pleasantly not surprised
but pleased

it all makes sense as to why
i like some folk

though some could understand
that we do not all have the same
beliefs
if any

enough today . i will drink
my morning tea and cary on.

listening…..

there is nothing wrong with listening,
it may be nice. other people’s voices
besides your own.

there is nothing wrong with helping,
forgetting your own agenda,
a while.

maybe we shall drive the weather, into
another season now the change of colour
is at the top.

she said i sound like seven, the other
required les nasal reverberations.

i do not read in public.

let us help each other.
be kind. listen when he
sends his love.

sbm.

.listening to the world.


hearing everything in return,
unwanted, unwilling to partake
in all the particulars.

time will tell, while
decisions come quietly.

are you tired of waiting,
do you grasp the mettle,
write it down?

young man.

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.

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.

it is an obvious thing, yet you
were not looking.you had seen
round corners, down the well,
most places, yet in front of
you it was.

they came suddenly, i heard their
voices. we need to keep the pattern
straight, in time to the music,
there.

later, we leaned against the post,
ate little apples, looked at
the scene,

got bitten.

as always.

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.

the frost came on the field

as the light failed. later

it warmed again.

it is a small garden,

that creates conversation,

hints at a deeper soul.

why mark your face with signs

and colours, look straight on.

look at the pleasure of a little garden.

sbm.

she has narrow shoulders,

thin arms.

much to bear.

sbm.

first seen in ellesmere with period characters we felt may be best removed.



lucky to have one on my birthday with lights from a battery quite reasonably

priced.



visiting town and gallery see them there are quite a lot. more money as craft.



seems little houses are fashionable now.



as are pugs.



sbm.

having trouble with capitals here
and the predictions teeth can be

difficult things
especially while

dentists are out of bounds
these days

the stones were delivered
alongside memories born

from a bird
who died

from the cat

and weasels have short legs

my neighbour insisted on helping

it was nice

making hay

drinking tea after



while others stitch bandages

breathe iodine



birds skulls

slight rain, you could say
drizzle, soft. a gentle day.

opening new ground. sand
underfoot reminds of
younger days. toast
also a comfort in
an age of other things.

pattern of tiny souls,
searching just for crumbs,
patterning a place to lodge
in life.

slight rain brought out
the coloured coats,
talk of tides and fortitudes.

opening new ground.

the church was closed.

sbm.

is an abreviation for a little place,
a town with pollarded trees, an avenue.

pleasant, the word springs to mind,
and colours. she wrapped my old red
trowel in gardening news, and
pasted cuttings on the wall.

the sun was out and while this may
be an issue, we covered our heads,
carried on.

museum past. locked behind glass,
50p for elders, free to locals,
we overpaid, talked of may bugs,
talked of most things.

a day out in llani.

sbm.

seems to live there now,
scratching at night, rustling,
while we wait below for
quiet.

company in the day, when
darkness falls ocd ensues

we write the day, draw
in lines, make conversation. we have lost
a friend,

gained another.

sbm.

.day 11.

we have lockdown here as you may know
it came last evening at 8.30, his knuckles
white,

john phoned me then to say he cannot visit
as planned with me at the upstairs window
him in the garden below

so i ordered the things online
like the paint that arrived
yesterday

‘happy yellow’ i gasped on opening
at how a colour can affect mood

a good name & i felt it so
that the doors will approve

later on the walk they dawdled up in front
stopped at all the turnings studying their
phones

in my delay i saw the birds nesting
the river running clean before they

went
and i
did my one
daily walk
now

with power

good to get
out

there has been too much order in
those tidy drawings so i used the
carbon again with looking away

they came random
slightly wistful i feel

my neighbour knocked at the back
so i opened and reversed down the
long library hall to talk loud from afar

he talked sense
but wondered
if they were hyping
it all up

still waking early
with the day fully
ahead and clear

there is a glimpse of light

above the door, bend to enter,



the ceiling is lower now.



there have been bats,

bees building, as she will say

on motor bikes.



in here are the clothes,

the memories, dust mote,

cobweb and rivalry

for my affection.



drink this, drink this .

there is a full length mirror for your reflection.

sbm.

the loft ladder pulled down

creaks & clatters



it can be remedied

while most doors squeak

all a differing tone



they came to film we stood quietly

while

the silence of the house recorded



he explained there is none



it could be remedied

yet then



where is the music ?



same with teeth

each one a perfect note



loft ladder pulled down

dust escapes

like ash from the fire



our thoughts fly as nothing.

it is not a word we use much here.            we have to adhere to rules.

those made in mind.  seems good to displace oneself a while. to work.







note the cattle,  blur the sheep.



there is smoke rising.



hen blas.

old place.



there are things going on here.

it is the eighteenth.



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.

do we have thought and care for the future here?



we do, though we never know how long we have.



now look away, this is a warning, content may upset.



i had a cat named prudence, she had some kittens. mum

drowned those in a bucket, and i saw. she put a lid on top,

with stones. i have a                       bucket just the same for

boiling clothes. never used.         i have a washing machine.



prudence died,                rumours of poisoning, who knows?



now look away.



one saved kitty george was mine, i loved him. he died sudden.



rumours abound.



things were different then.



sbm.

looking for one verse,
write another. fnding books,
read some other story.

there are installations
waiting, while the season,
slowly changes.

i have heard the news, await
the weather forecast.

meanwhile music plays,
early morning.

sbm.

while all around is buzzing,
slightly dis agreeing with another,
on work, politics, whether box shall
have wheels. the tiny model shines gold.

i am taken reverently to a place
of packing. all creatures back
in to tissue. it is not crumpled
like mine.

untouched, it was his first one,
untrained, he is young and
full of hope.

it was a most surprising day
which left little appetite for
anything but grapes and pure
necessities.

it is good to have a break.

sbm.

tongue tied, nothing to say.

no words about the house standing,

tree shadowed, wind shocked.





empty now, the owner gone.

a different place,

a new face, looks back,

at all that is begun.



yes it is tied, sewn into our

bodice, laced tightly.

look to the old ways.



as the beetle crawls

we move slowly now.



butterfly wing.

©sbm

about six years ago it was mentioned that the twigs

should be the same

do you remember?



later they taught me of the nature of working slow

and sure

so much can be done this way



last week i told you that he had tshown me

their visual value



***** the wall light into stone

church wall by the gate?

never

won’t work

so we fixed it with a twig



will send instructions in latin  upon request

my lovely

enamel tops and ice cream, i have both

my ice cream is soft scoop yet not entrely
easy as advertised

you know that i am leaving here
and you are the last link

i left one time back ,  i was persuaded
to return

it is no good
i do not like things

yes bala is my studio too
my luxury

i could make do with  the one
at home, yet both work well
in their own ways

your day sounds grand
i hope the macaroni cheese
tasted good

i had the last of the vegetable curry and banana bread
made from the things in the veg box so far nothing
is wasted

only a peach gone rotten at full price now in the
compost

i have three bananas left to eat

give my best regards to her
and  to know i am nothing
horrid

just ramblings and rhetoric
recollections on retro furniture
tops

and the state of play
each day

so enjoy this day
each day

6.39
low battery
fine
nothing moving much
wales

it is a smart bike with just a capital for your name
this morning which
bodes with rain & pastural lyrics

i see there is a little rack on back for your shopping

nice

i had a basket on the front for that and later days
the little dog

before she died

i thought of another bike yesterday
walking down the track

it is busy now with the summer here
it never used to be                now it is
very popular to be avoided by
folk like me

who enjoy being solitary

she talked a lot and that is ok
i gave myself breaks and looked about

i do find people interesting yet it is
good to pull back inside later

the i/me

you have bears?

my other self
when things get rattled

i watched a documentary regarding brexit
the bear sighed.

with a full stop after

i have worked with niches before
in aberaeron

now i stay local
or dispay on holiday

your name

with a capital letter as has she

regards to you both
today this lovely day
without a comma there

friday 19 july
news talks of dreadful car crash
&
america shooting down a drone
while
birds sing

these days of jollities  cares slip away

shoulders down

we buy our little treat



mine red and white spotted

flamenco shoes



we visit the rarities,

charities and dusty

places where book binders

work late



tiny clean hands gently folding leather

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.

black crow bird
pecks road ****.

pheasant.

haute cuisine.

Ps. forgot to say that I visited the Bala antiques chapel yesterday
and bought an old carboard package for Lux soap flakes
He was there and gave me a cake, then with a little support tried to play an old bugle while a customer played the hunting horn.
It was all very funny, he is very funny,

he could have lent me white paint & as he spent much of his time telling me

tutors’ commandments

i told him mine



if you have not what you need

use something else

& see what comes of it





if it breaks mend it

put it in exhibition



small things matter

which frays,

tells the story, discarded.



some say it was his handkerchief

used, worn     not discarded



here.



discarding , all was bottled, remained.



another day.



sbm.

high tide, leaves turn
early here, by the junction,

late august.  many
roads here, all picturesque,
this is north wales after all.

talk of splendid isolation,
bleaker days to come.

pain passes slowly, we shall
have autumn.

sbm.

numbers mix with words

i am returned

it was a pause in proceedings

a breath for continuation into

the season

a sociable hiding

it rained a lot &

i found friends

walking

look out for cors caron

to walk on water, wood

the space between where

words will seep out

walk alone

look out for florida abbey

the woods beyond

the man who talks of moss

touches it gently

i explained about the twigs

a metaphor for kindness, care

remembrance not to overlook

the small things. to treasure

the differences in folk. to treasure

familiarity in that  which surrounds us

James. you already know this

perhaps it is i who needed

reminding

how are the cats

mine are good

and so is betty

who stayed

is left behind with tiny writing. salisbury cathedral.



the back way. written in latin for those who matter.



those words and those words

an historian uttered sent me reeling          outside.

where air is cleaner.



oh , by the way

left you both there too. were you trying to appease

the barons?



sbm.

searching yet
i find nothing.

huge in
front of me,

the machine
is stuck.

it is decommisioned.

power house.



sbm.

it had changed. thinner.

less volume.

we thought.



no, she said it had been cut out. you see,

if you multiply this and that you will find.

the mass.



it stands steady, decommisioned, favourably

viewed by some.



not by others.



it can be a reflection, it is situated

by the lake.



the texture changed with age, as did the colour.



sbm.

why mark your face with signs

and colours, look straight on.

look at the pleasure of a little garden.

words

yes, & they cost nothing

i aim to do my work
at minimal monetary cost...

#makingapoint

if you do not write it down when you think

words will be lost



it can be done without imagination



just look at the cardigan

five buttons

one is different



some things are draining well

while the washing machine

is not



meanwhile the snowdrops bloom

St Tydecho with capital
letters, they say he came
from Cornwall here.

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

good to hear the voice raised
at the back. he mends his pockets
of am evening, and talks gratefully
to all the family.

in Mallwyd.

sbm.

you kept going while i was away even during storms

real grit

i am back as you can tell

will settle in a few days



7.21 home

lots to do

i briefly say that
i travelled to southport
then the manchester ship canal
then manchester town

i enjoyed it
much happened

much to do
to regroup
and tidy
up

your poor legs
oh!

a photo

oh!

they say that manners maketh man,

yet boys in pyjamas

use them to be polite , asking for quality

behaviour. smiling slightly

converse in lowered tones.





nijinski.

©sbm

where is the power house,
metal books he said.

concrete palaces for those
that prey.

he grew it plant like,
fought it,
numbered it
thirteen.

glue boards of writing
stuckt with words.

drawing into the process
of nothing,
his life of mind
in metal made large.

I am small in this place.

I have seen him take photographs.

i am small in this place

slate looms large
thrown unbalanced
waiting for water
to start the slide

small boys know to run
at the noise, shelter
from the war.

I know no such thing,
my soul slides into mud,

i am small
©sbm

it is a cold morning



in the garden things

are blown about



we have picked them up

whilst planning  the morning



we need cash

we need to check the rota



we like things simple

uncomplicated

no issue with that



issues with those who intrude

where no intrusion is necessary



i fly solo

while others gather



no sign of swallows here

there is a flower bed and a cow,
called margaret, how delightful.

the villagers are dressed
well for their situation,
their station.

the child drooped, pined,
no thought though
of horror and melancholia.

dressed in a plain clean way.

as are we all here.

sbm.

numbers.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else entirely.



is it memory, history,

some                  thing.



he titled it profanity, the

subconcious.



so we write,      critique,

move dots and numbers.



deal with the outcrops,

note the                 faith.



friday can be thirteen,

or something else





entirely.



sbm.