wonder where it goes
when it disappears?

sometimes letters fade
in the passing and the
spelling is wrong

or the names are forgotten

not written on stone

yet

the news is not factual
so much here any more
and i feel the important
things are missed

and others come biased

i told him that i neither
trust nor mistrust such
a thing

that is more to do with
people

he had chocolate in his
bag

he gave me a leaflet
it is in my pocket

how much is the book today,
ten pounds to you. there

were more all sold. the old
dealer did a moonlight flit.

how much is the book today,
fifteen pounds, simple pictures,
will you take a bottle?

a ledger clerk, i balanced well.

then remembered him. aproned, legless
ruling lines.

the book binder.

sbm.

little place



we did not live there really

only in heart in memory







power house

god of clattering birds

hills and history



a place to look at cows

look at

clean houses

pieces

coffee small cakes

*** jam

trusted patrons



we need to concentrate on detail

to describe things properly

need to

go there each year a while

to retain to remain in memory

need to

care for  little things



st david

may be a myth a memory



he carved it  so

said it was the centre of the universe



for some it is

so

so

st davids



the city  is in wales

cracked  window looks at clouds, the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in

all their softness, stunned by light.



sewn curtains stir memories, indicate

a private place to weave and mend

a dream.



here are the items, the installations,

here are the photographs i take

each day. here are the worries

placed in the cupboard, with notes,

for you to read.



sbm.

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothng is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

sbm.

passenger to driver.                 i have never been upstairs on this bus.

driver to passenger.                 this is  a single decker

passenger to driver.                  yes. i have not been on the upper deck.



driver to passenger.                 i do not drive double deckers.



passenger to driver.              i guess you need two drivers with one to drive upstairs

while you drive below



driver to passenger.            the two decks are stuck together. the top goes along with the                                                      bottom deck with one set of wheels.

driver smiles

pause



passenger to driver.            there is a chocolate bar.



driver.                                    fudge.

i did not write yesterday.



i delivered the case, i made.

they made.



i saw a little pram for dolls.



it squeaked delightfully.



if it is not sold, when i

collect the case. i may

buy it.



sbm.

the back bedroom. part one.



it has been noted  a long time.



i saw her back before on the landing

yet did not understand.



today i saw her in the back bedroom

standing.



*****.



much as the drawing i gave away.



i can make her now on demand

with the eye in my mind

&

sometimes i scares myself

silly.



.part two.

today she became metal

she became noisy

marched out buzzing

into the rest of the house.



maybe i need to stop this.

the start of things, the making
of the welsh cape.

tapestry.

we have none here, we
have a blanket, washed
and faded. we started
the research and found
he lived near the thing
he wanted.

he had not known
the proximity.

she tried the coat,
too stiff
too heavy, weighed
her down.

there is a sadness here now.

sbm.

we have spoken before.

the looms stand idle, some in store
some with recognition.

machines work less in cold,
sheds and lack of encouragement.

we worked the day with thread
and needle, only turning forward,
cutting cotton backward.

with squares we talked, of
older times,

light shed on weave,
broke the heart to bone.

days have gone, the names,
the weaves, the places.

he remains, he still has the music.

sbm.

it gets stuck

sometimes



we need the time of loosening





first time the car warns of

the danger of ice

in september

as i reverse gracefully up the lane



it is a difficult manoeuvre best



done without thinking

focussing

after loosening



we gets stuck sometimes

is red, slightly rough like the seats on buses

then.



imagined.



with a fringe each end.



i can go anywhere & i do. my boundaries are small.



i like it round here.



i like small places, ordinary, few shops for necessities.



niceties.



good solid folk, gritty conversation.

honesty.



i travel three hours or a little more with public

transport.



enough for me.



clean that magic carpet ready for the hallway

floor.



oh aladdin is a fairy tale.



sbm.

is probably that there is none, maybe.



is all a mixture, some  feel important,

others may seem like minor details,

yet part of that whole, that make us, makes

a life.



a small life maybe, yet some of those things

will be remembered.



sbm.

what is in that bag in the car?

you mean the brown paper bag from the bakers?

yes.

well there are his clean pants and his socks.

and

the leaflet about the manchester ship canal

you wanted.

also is a light bulb.

do you remember the electrician advised her of the peculiar property

of bulbs, well

she gave me a bag of the discarded ones

which all worked.

anyhow, one is a small ***** in and does not fit my lights here.

it will do for the light in my bedroom at yours.

thankyou. i will put it in the bedside drawer.

yes. that is what i thought too.

i hope you get to go on the manchester

ship canal.

he knows stuff, facts,and        figures

while i am astounded.the sun  comes

out by the drawers.    open they show

me birds and insects.      did you know

they cross their fragile legs      and tie

with cotton threads.

did you know that we are the only         ones

who do not eat insects and that            there

are more species of beetles than              any

other creature. having lost the             sexton

i despair while some                                  tick.

they thought it was the soul from the     dead.





i thought penguins were smaller and         that

an elephant had more teeth than                 that.

you let me hold one;  it was so heavy          so you

show me the tusks too, and we talked about trunks

and headaches.

it was hot there and hungry so i went for lunch,

a sandwich, returned later to look through   the

microscope.the man in the museum helped me.

there are fibres everywhere and when our   coat

comes

off he said there is a shower we cannot see only

imagine.

later i saw a sputnick, yet i liked the mothths and

beetles best. so does the man in the         museum.

sbm.

she said i will write of it, remember and she is correct.



the day at the national library, all red carpet for us,

empty cabinets, tapes left dusty.



we watched the serving, watched him drinking

five glasses of water before he walked away.



sbm.

have you watched them marching

beauty has a power



slow

careful



remember this when all else

are shouting.



move together

in memory.



sbm.

seems to be required
these days.

perhaps always.

he says there is no meaning,
i believe him, for in this life
of vaguaries
i make my own.

this is the work.
i mean it.

sbm.

i do not remember them

any of them

gone when i arrived.



mr granny pussycats was gone, she soon after.

never knew my granny wigs   and hers while

proper granny

lost hers after the cart fell on him and she became

a housekeeper of sorts.



mine left when i was four coming back to collect

the radio

i recall.



yours disappeared early and took no interest twice.



the men.

is written, is said, may be sung,
another day. a smudge is all it takes
to start.

once started move on. it may be the wrong
item, it is, just, what it is now, a label.

it rained most of the day ,the roof leaked.

a friend returned that evening.

i will draw the mermaid, with a fish.

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.

did you fall in            the  black peat

did you slip and loose your footing?



did no one come to find you,as they

did not feel you missing.           they



say it is a lonely thing.



did you not notice?



sbm.

some of it did not work,
so added red , text, news
paper.

some of it did not work,
added bunting, torn
paper.

most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.

sbm.

some of it did not work, so added red , text, news paper. some of it did not work, added bunting, torn paper. most of it works now, memory plays a part, when we look to the mountain.

the mass, the clouds  lay heavy,

rain that came, that blinded

again.



blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.



phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw

nothing.



water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.



things that can be mended.



he said that most people throw broken plates away.

sbm.

james

as I crouched in the long grass
the buzzard came down as big
as a chicken

we looked at each other a while

as it flew off I dropped all the seeds

gathered

in the wrong place

later I sat looking
and while the dragon
fly came from the water

the grasshopper came for company

that evening on the bird feeder
the mouse sat looking in

eyes like shiny black pin heads

stayed a while

i had company yesterday

i think

I shall have company again today

I do not know if it is first edition, is just my book i bought from charity and read it mainly in the back bedroom.
Out of site. The photographs are writers on postcard size prints.
I cannot come on the 27th yet I hope it all goes well.
I think I shall like to be involved with most things as I do not often get to London.

the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

sbm.

the museum man

says it is the medieval place,

that causes the feeling

of calm and acceptance,

and smiled at our excitement

on the glass , the remembrance

and hallmarks.

he works there.

he said he never

noticed the thistles,

just handed me the bag.

i have said before that
some like such things.

rust and reddened eyes

he brought me an older nail.

we talked and planned new things
for the garden. i hope you do
not imagine it is marvellous, at
least it is mine for now.

we drew the plans with ant powder.

the house is mine a while. the family
came to see their old rooms, played,
shook hands and thanked me.

no need, no need.

it is all honest work.

sbm.

hear that , crashing in the old wood, trees fall and                          die.

seems time stands still, nothing moves .                                happening.

older times are done,                        quiet now, seamlessly it will start

again.

one word, one sound, then blindly we will crash  into the wild woods

again.

i met a man who did not know,  had just arrived.

we may learn in time.



again.

sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

maybe in the fifth visit i met him

in the city in the thrift shop

open

from nine maybe till six or five thirty



several buttons and an open face

head

adorned with patterns

he opened easily

recognised we are not robots

despite the badges



it is colourful in the city

she mentioned it in suprise

immediately apologised



notice i talk more about people than

the architecture though that was appreciated

and wrote of it especially



do you know i watched the pigeon paddle

the parakeets flying

crossed



over the road carefully minding the trams

the tram lines

tripping gently forward

we found our way together

in manchester the fifth time

I should have replied before, sometimes work takes over, I am preparing an installation for the castle.

At present my office is in the garden.

I will attach a photo, do not take it badly, as we all hope soon, you will be home.

It is warm and sunny, yet the breeze blows nicely, and I can see the mountain from here.

We had a lazy walk along the lane, dusty now in this heat.   The dog  is slow. I leaned at the bridge while she caught up.

I hope you have a decent view from your window. Do not worry about replying, unless you want.

I hope you are alright today, and that things improve.

she took me home that afternoon.



had slept in the chair. the next day

he looked well, had eaten, and was reading

the newspaper.



they said he could come home soon.



sbm.

could be anything,it is
relevant.

pins can be dangerous on the floor,
stuck in fingers, laid abed with a bandage tied,
his chest was tight, his head red hot.

soothed with oboe, finlandia ,rabbit,
the rag fell off out of site, the game
continued.

sbm.

they came through dust, on
horses. appearing at seven.

he spoke through dust,
his voice as water.

i dreamed my hair was golden,
that people stayed. yet i
woke alone.

it seems a darker morning.

sbm.

was in  the same place

central, handy, most

folks seemed to know him and helped him



asked if he wanted food, he said that a cuppa

hot tea would be nice as he had a cold. asked

if he had somewhere to go

he replied he had a shed



the ordinary helped him, knew his name



some times i despair of the others, the

ones you may have voted into power

here

then she spoke to me,
came from abergele,
at the door all day,
learning history
of kitchens, copper pans.

talked of every day, not dates,
or kings and queens.

the bedroom roped with blue,
a smallish bed and posies.

I feel nothing here,
no lost words or empathy.

it was closer, below.

where are you now?

is it a spinette?

sbm.

Posted on August 11, 2016

the bank cuts by,

the path next the
sea.

air is clean here,
sailors are honest
about the weather.



it is a good idea

to visit each year.



sbm.

yes they usually die
the shock
the little things

how many cats

yes limited service
due to heat & there
have been fires on the lines

we walked yesterday to the lakeside
slowly
crossed into the shade
in winter we cross into the sunny parts

passed the spoon factory
the old mill
looms rusted outside
cloth still involved
rotting slowly

the parrot large blue
in a cage in tanygrisiau

we stroked marcia’s cat so relaxed
it slipped from the wall

recovered

we managed to catch the bus back

30p in school time
50p as regular

i shall like the photograph
though i have imagined it inside
my mind.

regards

6.39
one cat on the grave yard wall
the others somewhere else

opposite the house. is mowed
regularly, bordered with rose bay willow herb.

pink.

some say a ****, others an herb, yet it is
a useful plant, a stand together in public
space, glow in groups of style and ease.

now september, frothy beards begin to
gentle blow on air, then winter stems
remain.

fireweed.

pink.

i have no photograph.

.

pink.

to die back gracefully or be
strimmed.

sbm.

small path, a right of way,

for me, to go down the back lane.

it is all forget me nots,

i wrote of it before.

i had bought 1000 seeds, black

and tiny,

from ebay, wondered who counted

them.

he is a farmer, will strim

them soon, so i gently pulled

a plant. the ground gave easily,

moles had been tunneling.

i will forget thee not.

he is a farmer.

sbm.

one of the bears is my ancestor,

illogical i know. he has come to

live here quietly respecting

all that is happening now.



what is that?, he said in itallics.



it is my phone.



how do you explain that?



same as i explained it to him,

i can talk to people who are not here.



ah, the way you talk to me?



yes.



sbm.

rained heavy most of the day here
yesterday

so I took a photo through the window
found a new way to focus

block out the bad
the negative thought

not many liked it yet
I knew I had learned some thing
valuable

something to remember

i saved one quarter and the rest will
follow in time I am sure

a back up

i cannot fix that broken thing
i
can replace it

it cleared by six yet by then I was fixated

indoors

the cellar is ongoing
the shelf is tidy

i feel they prefer images from outdoors
rising hills and spreading fields

it is not always possible

i saw you fallen

&

photographed you



took you to be stitched.





yet i could not save you

nor

any of you.



you are a metaphor for death.





these

old photographs spur us on

to
care and treasure,

to

sweep and clean.



i keep yours by the stairs

to remind

that if you could leave us

so can anyone.



so

having written of the hour,

move on when all seems lost.



the days remain

timeless.

envy the rural living.

make some.

walk the dunes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mine, in honour
walk the place in mind.

sbm.

heard her in the foyer,
playing while she waited.
heard her on stage,
where we were staging,
red.

that is a posh piano
all shine, and polish.

there is another downstairs
in the music room, we don’t
know if it is tuned.

so she  plays with us
now, the resident artists
who live elsewhere.

who like the moon.

sbm.

run from the full moon,

race while the sky turns red

and all is falling.



go to the shore, hide

while the world is at war,

and all is falling.



there is light on the

water, can you feel it

while all are falling?



sbm.