i write about the



slight bump



because i cannot write about the past

the one i never had





a little knock is nothing

a reminder to take more care

to look out for others



i apologise for intruding into your space or did you come into mine?



is there damage. will it remove with spit and a wipe

of your sleeve?



i am so sorry



i do not remember that time

yet



i will remember your details

to make reparation

or shall we just spit on it and wipe



shake hands?



i am so sorry



perhaps we can meet again some



other time

without collision

over a coffee?



later we talked it over on the bus

which came to a skid suddenly

i imagined it was a cat crossing



we are given the theme initially

then things change

incredibly

at the black,
no reflection.

look hard,
small lives,
see the window

crack.
i am not alice.

there have been planes about, someone is missing.



the old room needed cleaning and through the cat

slide neatly framed flew two hercules, heavy bird

like.



it is a cleaner window now, rain hits the glass,

noise is monumental.



someone is missing.



sbm.

i spent a long time looking

in higher boxed for those

who are missing.

have you seen the film?

i have. many times.

sbm.

so the bear looks at me and says,



‘ you mean it were the settings that was wrong ‘



yes.



‘so it was all your imagination?’



yes.



‘i feel a bit better now’



sbm.

I cannot remember the date it occurred, possibly early autumn.



We noticed he was eating more than usual, a whole swiss roll after meals. Then he fell off his bike, and a neighbour brought him home. He worked on the railway, cycled the eight miles to the station; it was on Leybourne hill he collapsed.

Only we did not think of it as a collapse until the doctor came.







once again we come back to ourselves, our life ,

the reality of  things, we stumble through

neatly.



while all around is trembling , we weave together

with dreams and possibilies.



there is not much more to add, it is lighter

now.                                       birds sing early.



once again we come back to ourselves.



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.

a pattern of letters, ideas, or associations which assists in remembering something



so it does

we do

and test ourselves early



grey son perry

gay bion

no associated links





combine



with

numbers repeating back wards

links

only one shutter
speed, htc desire.

so we clicks quite fast,
failing the photo challenge
today. It is a point to make
that any old camera will do,
if we is short on cash, or
undecided what to buy.

I am not at all tecnical
nor can i spell it. the coach

went quite fast.

sbm.

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

satie plays.

today the thoughts are changed,
each time, to see, what else to be.

to think without the culture, the nurture,
reborn to hear the news, to look anew.

we are not to blame,
it is the way of things.

seven thirteen monday morning.

sbm.

leaned by the window.     cold.

thought that

if

snow falls it may  land,

if trees grow it may be

up.



if we all plant seeds

they may be food.



the day before  we  drove to

montgomery.



sbm.

moving on from friday
we use running stitch
to catch the thread.

we use cloth to cover
all that is. comfortable.



sbm.

when quiet

moments return.

she says he was a good man.

it was not written early,

there was the bed to change, the washing to dry,

the neighbour’s dog. there were thoughts, yet

they were forgotten in the medly of chores.



it is written later, with coffee, the cat full of

cream.



it is a cold and frosty start,  lower degrees

in edinburgh.



the sun is shining, birds fly up.



sbm.

rain came, seeds will grow.



watered places i cannot reach,

**** half full.



noisy day, farmer making hay,

lambs  moved from  mothers.



they say the sun will come

later to dry .



sbm.

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

only imagine the place
closed. it is colder this morning.

mrs ciano to be removed, one
part back to the museum, the

other packed and ready to go,
back, whence. she came from
an imagination, all bloodied
bandages,  hymned words.

in two parts, splinter time.

google her  remains.

the curator moves
on.

mrs ciano.

sbm.

you know, he was at the

recycling depot out in

the rain, a sudden storm.



rescued, at no charge from

the bloke, who sheltered.



through the machine,

came clean. loved

and photographed.



he sits by the clock,

some times likes a sparkler.



sbm.

as can we, yet i guess
a duck can’t smile, ian.

can snails smile, i know
i smile a lot, learned it
at dance class, whatever
happens, keep it up.

continues now, at work,
they say it cheers you up,
makes your cheeks hurt,
sometimes.

i pinned the label on.

sbm.

clover round small trees.

rain spots.


high house begs to buy,
french bird house,
old linen stitched,
pinned , labelled
tied with string.

a domestic thing.

later at home.

owls perched outside.

our oak tree.

a new format, yesterday.

sbm.

in a fit of peak,
we decided, yes.

the soap in is the
bathroom, ann

as is the amputee
swimming doll
free.

my gifts are still unpacked,
i did, then packed them
back again, to enjoy
today.

the garden is in my mind,
as are al the other delights
we saw, ann.

me must go
back again.

thank you, ann.



sbm.

they moved the mirror,

when blankly looking

found nothing there,

ex cept

vertigo and framed

birds nesting.

the moon jars, have melted stone.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging,
while i have seen so much. i forgot

to ask about your trip. i had driven
the mountain to see you, parked
nicely, kissed your cheek, talked

about the issues, seen the art work.

this morning is like autumn, though
still in july, softness lowering.

i am so sorry, i forgot to ask
about your trip.

sbm.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging,
while i have seen so much. i forgot

to ask about your trip. i had driven
the mountain to see you, parked
nicely, kissed your cheek, talked
about the issues, seen the art work.

this morning is like autumn, though
still in july, softness lowering.

i am so sorry, i forgot to ask
about your trip.

sbm.

6 am.    he refused

6.30 am. he refused unless

7.00 am. he will not unless

7.30 am.  he will if…….



#JC  #news  #bbc

air cut clean.

dawn. herons crake

over.

a leaf falls.

friday morning.

sbm.

it was quiet here yesterday
the rain came and dripped
with noises outside the back
i looked out to see the gutter
slipped and listened to the
sounds

looked at the wet glistening
on the ivy

wedged the cloth to soak
the water up then lit the fire

done some drawings
&
cookings. a pleasant
day for me

comparing large dresses

hoping that all will be
well

with morse

we needed a translator to explain the word.



a differing gender.



he was someone’s brother.



mort de guerre







sbm.

another time it may be well to ask what it is . does

it bring comfort?

it may not be bad.



pull the thread, watch it fray. sadly they took it away.

said it was *****, filthy and smelled.

bad.



ask.

me.



i can tell you a story.



unravel your cloth. most things are woven , time

upon time.



some things come different and often not

bad.



as you imagine.



sbm.

where i kept  control,

when we have no control,

really.

it is a human thing

as cutting hair or mourning.

so we shopped till evening,

little things

relating to birds,

and cake at two

and six pence.

the empty house at fairy glen

reflects the tin hut

again.

other buildings.

©sbm

making the work about making the             work.



knowing the cylinders are empty,                  you



had asked if i have heard of instagram. a relic of



how we judge by appearance.            i told you that

i had an old box brownie, a clue to             confuse.



it is good to talk about work that is about making

the work.



they like my badge.                                     at mostyn.



sbm..

it is the moth that speaks.
the jaw holds the teeth.
..

‘ are you my  mother’, asked the bear.



no.



‘who are you then?’



somebody else’s mother, you and

i are best friends.



‘thankyou’



sbm.

… mothth …



faint.                                                  a soft breath, minimal sigh.



ththth.





gauze.                                                  the space between,    thin.



thth.



thinner still the sound.                                               on the wind.

seeds.                                                                                          touch



skin softly.                                                                                hardly

sense                                                                                  the feeling.

one feather floating.



thth.



listen.



sbm.







14463277101546387232561777804934958290103387_n

a storm came yesterday,

dark and loud,

the landscape veiled,

awash, a while

black things fade,

and all is grey.

moving on from the last verse of girly looking

after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.



the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the

rings were                  three thousands and more.



enough to take her        home and more.



“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”

by talking of it you hold it tight

while needing to move on.



while moving on it is good to

talk of it sometimes

to bring it back

a while.

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

sbm.

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

sbm.

after twenty years, the backs need dusting,

the new one to be hung.



it is a little drawing, done with conentration

and love.



we drive the valley,  a new venue,

visit the pictures, there is no reduction

for being old, so we choose the best seats.



new years day.



sbm.

so we gets up early having dreamed of you,

and planned all the good work.



takes to the garden before the heat sets in hot.



done half when we hits a rock, bent our blade.



all things may come right in time, if you

loves the ones you think you don’t.



yet then, what do i know really, except the metal

twisted.



the washing is on nicely, while i takes the *******

out.



sbm.

was at the national library of wales,

you know, that big building in aberystwyth,

just after bow street. they have a red carpet on the stairs,

men standing at the base, to guard, to help you.

tie the books in cases, stare at the black book  again.

mrs ciano is labelled, and no one looks at her.

there is a castle here, though no one thinks so.

sbm.

has mostly left the building.

one imagines packed
in sellophane,  other
sundry packings, boxed
for transporation, waiting

a collection. alongside
the robes, trollies, and

coffee making services.

she is a small thing,

accompanied by other things.

sbm.

most of it was found,
yet i waxed, tied the books,
shredded cloth to rags,
bled a little.

arranged it all my way,
dismantled ,packed,
sent to the curator.

who installed it his way,
added the metal trolley,
i have coveted so long.
it all feels rather biblical.

sbm.

she as been away a while
i told you. probably with
the robes, boxed in time.

i spoke to you of her,
told you she was mine.
it was accepted.

she will be found, put
into exhibition , the academy.

art and the book,
mrs ciano.

sbm.

in the store room with the robes,

boxed, marked robes. some people

don’t like labels, although  it is the source,

a holding.



installed, the lady called her wierd, name calling.



the paper, the pins.



i call her mrs ciano, pleased to see her

again.



we talk, and she is company.



sbm.

they moved her,  you know, from the trolly

to a plinth .not sure whether to be honored,

stayed  still with glass,    bandages

were bloodied.



a message came, choked on tears,

sobbing rose. that one should

notice her.



mrs ciano received a message.

sbm.