nettle rash and ants
sting. love letters.

sbm

i like fishmongers, see the fish
laid in ice, little eyes, so i went
in to sea. a small shop, cod one side,
ice creams the other, dog outside.

with a cushion, and bone, meat bone.

may i help you?

i should just like to look, unless
you have herring.? no, they
did not catch any this week.

then i am not a very good customer.

no, you need more training.

sbm.

chasing the boulder.

having looked before,
i looked again on my way,
past the laundry cottage
on the bend.

low tide indeed, no
**** up with the tide, sand
showing.

back along, slow and glance,
see the thing, reverse return.
standing proud, the wooden boulder,
david nash sculpture. me in dancing shoes,
the river bank deep mud.

i had to photograph it.

quite badly from a distance.
i will go again.

i liked the montbretia.

sbm.

* notes ( i have not written notes a while )
Montbretia
Crocosmia is a small genus of flowering plants in the iris family, Iridaceae. It is native to the grasslands of the Cape Floristic Region, South Africa. They can be evergreen or deciduous perennials that grow from basal underground corms.

*extra note

David Nash is known for works in wood and shaping living trees. His large wood sculptures are sometimes carved or partially burned to produce blackening. His main tools for these sculptures are a chainsaw and an axe to carve the wood and a blowtorch to char the wood.

at home, november,
trailing rain, floods
the field,
damp horse droops,
dark, shiny, mud
splattered.

we walk, talk to the roofer,
jen on her bike, slimmer.

we draw, as film negative,
to replace the drawings
lost in post.

resite.

sbm

words can be long,
as in bone,
and the soul,
oppose.

or hard, as in
can,
kite and ketchup.

this, us, miss
is hissy
as in fit.

unfortunately
there is no evidence
that the bards
had their own alphabet

sbm.

no items match my search.

yet i was not looking for anything,

much.



i have most that i need,

and want and am given

more

by those who love me.



given more by those

who don’t.



i am smaller now.

sbm.

no items match my search.

yet i was not looking for anything,

much.



i have most that i need,

and want and am given

more

by those who love me.



given more by those

who don’t.



i am smaller now.

sbm.

no post for days,
dropped on my mat
where the stray cat sprays
some times.

i have seen him he is pretty,
runs away.

i am brave though,
i hope you will be proud
of me.

the book came,
i read the first verse,
and cried.

it was such a lovely day.

sbm

man and woman made,
children too, boast accents.

change things,
move the hat,, squeeze
euthymol, stand tall.

it was not trouble,
nor your fault, it is
the way of things,
some times.

hang on the swing
upside down, viewing
earth, hear the planes,
listen.

draw the lines. deflty,
then rub them out again,
forget the boundaries.

sbm.

have been quoted before,
holy books, those with no label.

no one reads them, tied, just for
decoration. he said it was a
statement. unopened it spoke,
of double numbers.

wept, could not read
here,  now weeping cannot
know these words and cyphers.

a forbidding thing, to speak
in symbols, yet some
still do.

she said this is not the real world.

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.

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

it is my mother’s birthday.

we stood and watched
punch and judy yesterday,
while god was all behind us.

he bashed, we laughed,
he bashed, laughed more,
he bashed.

children were removed
from the vicinity,
others stayed.

incorrect musings
regrading life and buskers.

pastel buildings mask
the incorecctness of it all.

it is my mothers birthday.

sbm.

maybe that is the right way up.

while all is quiet here with words
and drawing, single stones are multiplied.

we weave and play the stolen hours
into dawn, dusk, all the hours, birds sing.

people writhe and communicate,
some with silence and retribution.

there was a time, we went to wonderland.

sbm

in some houses no one,
presses, steams and irons,
clothes, the inevitable linen,
no more.

busy days we are pressing words,
hanging out for all to see,
to disagree.

a private place, a box, there
are some you will never see.

secrets.

sbm.

he said that i will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.

sbm

ends with five. i saw the horse

very early, pushing fence,

to lean to the long grass.



i walked the big house

to see the garden pool.



you came too,

good job there

was no hurry.



boys came

on bikes,

and running.



slowly, the fence

went down.



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.

there is the mark,
in the grass where
your cat sleeps, we watched
her from the window.

precious.

these are the pears on
my tree, my grass
is so green, this is
my humour, i am company.

i am your neighbour.

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 a simple thing,
to think sideways,
practice makes a hindrance
when others think straight.

we gets in all sorts of
troubles,
strange situations.

should we explain,
to make it right?
can just makes it worse,
so we measure things,
and carry on.

right sided?

sbm.

the walkers came dripping,

spots on the newly mopped floor,

as if i cared.



people bought umbrellas.



that day. i might have writtien it wrong,

is no spell check there.



there are mirrors, that show

the size of the discrepancy.



after the balance, they sheltered,

then made a run for it.



it was brain washing.

sbm.

some people seeking perfection,
their dream in music
decline.

have their own reality,
ideals, unreasonable
requests.

we found the shade,
missed any remarkable
rainfall, ate the cherries,
at the royal welsh.

no are no demands,
no disappointments.

these are the days,
a repetition.

sbm.

some people seeking perfection,
their dream in music
decline.

have their own reality,
ideals, unreasonable
requests.

we found the shade,
missed any remarkable
rainfall, ate the cherries,
at the royal welsh.

no are no demands,
no disappointments.

these are the days,
a repetition.

sbm.

good mix, bit of this,
bit of that, healthy
living.

bit of quiet, new friends,
old friends, young in years.

i tried that. it mostly works.

i usually stop, let others,
move around. risk no life.

it is a better road now.

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,

it has been a pleasant summer

sbm

late we come,  early.
winter still, warm.

approach the bridge,
the bridge in the village.

there hangs the cloud,
wipe the windscreen.

can you see, do you,
know where you are.

they came through the prysor
valley.        family.

a cloud hung there too.

sbm.

have you been to the counting?


dazzled by words and numbers,

lines ruled to stop the vertigo

setting in.


have you sorted and straightened

everything, only

to find disorder later?


have you deleted your name

to find it written down again.


i spent a long time looking

in high boxed for those

who are missing.


have you seen the film?

i have.    many times.

sbm.

waking up knowing.

meeting the ones
we like, along with those
we do not warm to.

maybe in time
after admiring the
underwear showing.

a compliment will
not go amiss,
when kindly given.

now the blackberries taste
good, the damsons
do not.

yet.

sbm.

partying, music in the car,
talking to each other.

they are friends, we
all went riding, early autumn.

yet, they did not see
the kite fly over, the teasels,
butterflies on buddleia.

they looked at each other,
they are best friends.

sbm

have you ever prayed, bowed,
head to ground. have you
written yet another note
regarding disorder.

here are the paintings, in awe
they wonder, and know not
the artists’ names. there are alms
and offerings.

remember the boy spread out,
cruciform.

you looked without apprehension.

i cried subtle tears.

this is the cathedral.

sbm.

through blaenau, orange now,
bracken competing with slate,
winning a while, as leaves
fall.

to conwy, the road
rising above the flow,
one tree remembered.

two calves run down
to the others. on arrival

admire the quality of
bunting hung here, cotton,
with spots. there is a festival.

we had a meeting.
nine circles.

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.

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.

i liked it. bought it.

slight regrets in that i
felt sadly, it made me
look elderly.

wore it anyway, having
paid charity, and was
complimented all day.

i either have
demented vision,
or my shape will do.

empire line
is more flattering,
so now are we
back to discussing
jane austen, period drama
or escape from the past.

sbm.

there have been and are more,
waiting. we wish for less, yet
they will come all our lives.

so many together, not such
a good idea. asked and recieved.

the festival continued, we miss
the procession, kept on time.

the circle turns.

sbm.

afraid of the wheel

forgotten when it started.



never seen such a thing,

brothers in balance,

round and round

the circle turned.



young, they did not die.



then the horses turned.



no photos allowed.



sbm.

part of a project
the phoenix rose,
made salads
with the usual
plus little ingenuities,
seeds and handy hints
for dealing with things.

small bowls
piled high
coloured with
care, with surprising
bravery.

it has been said
that when chopping,
please stand carefully
balanced both sides,
and think of me.

these are the small
salad days
of our independence.

I have no photograph.

sbm.

is that your mother’s grave.
no she lived in bournemouth,
buried there.

why did you not bring her
here?

look a leaf fell, it
must be autumn now.

so we built the dens,
one with leaves overlooking,

one with sheets, pegs, ironing boards
as befits domesticity. it got hotter.

i lost touch, did not know
he is in hospital.

sbm.

initially,
crossed the great divide,
sea to the land, from
one to another, then, talking.

crossed the narrow bridge
talked of the past,
revisit the old place.
all plumbing and stair rods,
you know what i mean.

courage to walk away
from objects that irritates
our eyes, to eat another way,

with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean. with
the kindness of strangers
to cross the mountain, be led
home.

they say it may be drizzly today.

sbm.

autumn apples, gone from
the tree, a few this year.

coxes then , singly in the florist,
basketed among the flowers.

lunch at 20p, rattle the pips
to make sure. slice neatly white,while
watching the wind strip the leaves.

this is an autumn apple. break time
in the staff room. only the pips are left.
to grow again.

sbm.

dark o’ clock.

windows shut, interior sounds

fluff and meanderings.



inevitable clock ticking,

literal conciousness.



freedom spent a while,

another brief imprisonment,

hunger strike, maledictus.



it all descends back into bing translations.



sbm.

while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.

caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,

thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.

concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.

earth and heaven.

sbm.

it was my beetle, dead, not buried.
i keep them, yet it fell
to the floor,
mysteriously lost.

we try to turn disasters round,
here, knowing it will be found,
some time.

my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
aptly the grave digger, it seems

you can buy dead insects on line.

sbm.

to air and store, to host
the mouse that eats the soap.

no longer . it is stored in tins,
now, even the chewed bits.

it left the government soap
alone, that just dried out slowly.

in the tidying we lost
the bandages and rattling threads,
found remembered handkerchiefs,
starched, boxed with pins.

oh joy of tidiness, so much could be
thrown, so much can be kept.

these are the falling days.

sbm.

it is always there

in the bathroom,

ignored, as was the photo.

yesterday it came to light again,

every woman’s toilet,

book.

edited by mrs robert noble,

not dated, yet dated.

are artificial aids justifiable,

how to have a dimpled wrist

with excercise,

means, and massage,

a moderate diet essential.

we do not wish a muddy complexion?

no. nor to wear the years

away in sad ness and regret.

we just need an excellent lotion,

for tired eyes,

and carry on, rejoicing.

all that there is.

plus the photograph.

sbm.

is saturdays at ten in the morning,
sundays later at eleven.

this too remembered in the bathroom,

where today’s installment
for every woman is
the importance of a good complexion,
aided by a moderate diet,

essential. an east wind to be avoided,
along with shell fish.

these do much harm
to the tenderest skin,
while wrinkles apparently
bring despair.

real pretty arms are never snowy white,
being pudgy and nerveless,
should be cream
coloured.

i go to the eisteddfod today.

sbm.

at night late                           the room,

looks like an interior              painting.

with paintings.                       all closed

grey.

listen to the care in the music, like this,

then the change.                        know

the work, and soicitude there.      here.



know that when the rain came,

we stayed dry.                              here.



it was the last boat.

sbm.

calculated the preferred payment,
extra to the ordinary, waiting.

compensation for dust,
fluff is different, bought out,
life is changed.

we live in the country.
short and sweet.

sbm.

i found pryce jones
empty, except for
a smell, and sad boy,
wanting to get out of there.

i found that when taking notes,
i took note of the shadow,
the history man on
bullet points, politics.

registering my interest
i may have an opinion here.

or there. he left early
which was just as well.

i went shopping for wooden things.

sbm.