.day 50..

the flowers are corona as you know
now
they escape it seems
and spread about

i went back with resolve to be
untidy
then looked at the extra sleeve
and got excited

so back to the drawing board
hardboard

to work again on this corona
angel

joan
she is always joan
the other one

days off are delightful
yours make good reading

i went on a visit
which fed me with delight
and home made
soup

then sadness for he is ill

a particular being
as are most of us
here

the cracked mirror
the wooden box tied with string

full of wood shavings, beautiful
to view another day
if i return
if i return

the cloth by the fire
three radios
each tuned different

splendid cows in the front fields
all clean and brushed

the rusted hook gathered
from the garden still good enough
to use

i walked through town
wet on the way up
dry coming back
hours later

yes i fail in that i see/experience
many things that may be left

aside

he said that maybe there is something
after all, that we are not to know of it ever

obviously as we do not know
and cannot know everything

there is a house below dark
yet somehow welcoming

i tried not to stare in

i like the feel of the town
slate town, blaenau ffestiniog

i woke later today
and that is alright

i shall record the addresses
and make a clean bed and studio later

for now

7.29 am
with tea, coffee in an hour
head full of thoughts and ideas
with no pattern or rhyme
with that underlying
sadness

there is no one about down the back road

just two squirrels.



i wander up the ***** to the studio

to see if she is in.



she had issued one invitation only.  a quaint
old fashioned idea,       that we may be friends

please come ,take a drink,              talk with me

maybe                                               walk with me

let us get to know each other                   gently

do not over stay the welcome   50 minutes will suffice

breaking cups    spilling tea will abuse the hospitality

please come. i have the kettle on.    this is not the time

for hostility



she knows this is a corpse road, an old             deathway

bridle path up to the church

where  the monks walked from the abbey where

dead were brought for burial, pagan before the now

where candles burned



an old place she thought





background noises interrupt the walking tread

she turns to look back at the outline of trees

the scene beyond



hengwrt. smoke rising

smells  of warm wax



by the door



she catches her reflection in the glass

wonders who it is.   lost in  mind

forgets that she exists

a sense of unreality





the door  slightly open

she pushes it and waits



does not call out or knock

it does not some as natural



enters



her host is not at home yet

she looks about

blinks noting all the objects

are hers



she is the visitor, she is the host

she is two

become one again





inside outside in





she thought

there was no one about down the back road

just two squirrels.



my sister

storm predicted, wind swept,
the visitors came, to report
the leak was dripping
on the soap and mothth.

my bath room.

it has been a week of water,
seeping the cellar, blowing
the window wide, wreaking
repairs.

the soap was laid gently,
a radiator, pears.

the mothth on a cottin flannel
to air.

they both dried, thanks
to my visitor.

I stayed home all day.

sbm.

yes i have agreed to help
&
pronounced that i was nervous
so someone will meet me and
walk up together

i only recently am honest about
the mouseness
and then not often

people may not understand
just like the way i don’t get
things
sometimes

like forgetting apostrophes
& adding numbers together
to see what comes

he talked clearly yesterday
despite his car wheel falling

off

do you like the feeling, walking ahead quickly, moving forward, loosening limbs. pushing

through wind, through water, rain slanting. shouting, counting the rams, shadowing

shepherd. wee mouse on the path, beady eyed. these are the hopeful days, weak sun

aching

3.



down the back lane there are puddles, huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.   branches blown , creaking twigs while rain stays off a while. she is a new walking partner, quite fast, no bother.

lean on the fence to look over a steep drop to the river

tears well as we speak of it openly

4.

to break the cut a pheasant comes comely all collars & spectacles   walks sedately to the edge, leans forward, ambles down.



the walk.

so you cut more than intended, never mind.



there is a new area for interest & decoration.



around the compost area.



worms.



checked the toad yesterday, gone not

forgotten.



checked again today. nicely returned

under the slate.



transition was easier than expected.



we learned a thing or two in the garden.



llaneraeron.



in the company of one other. walking slowly.



sbm.

wait for it to settle & i will **** it.

NO



why not?
it will die anyway some day



NO



IT MAY NOT HAVE ACHIEVED IT’S PURPOSE YET

i said it were a lovely day, i did not mean the weather.

i talk about the feeling, the mood that did not change, all day,

little tasks that please. planting chives in treacle tins, ironing pyjama pants,

and cotton handkerchiefs.

he warned me the rain would come, and when it did

heavy, we tucked in tight here, enyoyed the darker

green.

then, the rain will stop.

sbm.

it is a ritual, it is the music,
the loom, the gestures, the

night before christmas,
hand over mouth, awe

and wonder. some sounded
fire works, dogs cowered.

some sounded bells, calling
the village to come.

some stayed at home, wondered
at the small things surrounding.

the weaver of raveloe.

linen thread.

sbm.

it is called hate speech and should be reported early.

know that this upsets, both parts, especially when you
are liked.

understand the way of things, the good feelings that
reside.

do you know that all will appear ugly if you speak so,
make you feel unsettled, and unhappiness flow.

i only say this, as some may block you. think early.

it can just as easily happen to you.

did you fight in the last war, did you earn your medals there?

there is a small bird in this house, perching on the chair.

sbm.

becomes larger as time moves on.

it started early, with greek poetry,

the radio, which played all day.

he says i like a challenge, and

can certainly rise to the occasion.

cutting in proves concentration, happily

painting everything white.

geese flew over, ann messaged to

say her swallows returned.

the day moved slowly, and i find

the memories are not as you may think.

i have new ones.

sbm.

when the fog clears we creep back into the wild wood  watch birds eat wettened crumbs.

softly rain falls  each year  falls an        anniversary

noticed a change in colour
of pace

he walked with his bike
most folk ride

it used to be a railway line
flat and straight

he returned back past me
said he forgot something

further down the track
the bike was propped
by a tree waiting

while

sparrows muddled in the dust

cattle reached for the lower

branches

leaves are changing

and there is mistletoe
on one branch

the runners came after seven
lithe and nimble
smart headphones

pony tails bobbing

i walked on and saw a young heron
close

it rose. flew through the trees.

agnus dei

you tube music

the evidence is here.



the water boatmen, long tailed

****, the state of the tide,

other misdemeanors.



i dreamed of japan, woke

assunder, messages

broke.



i made a bottle, then

the witnesses came.



it was quiet day in the studio.





sbm.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.

a long time.

they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.

one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .

we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.

it is empty a long time.

sbm.

was invited to be a member
of a group named
meshers
around the world on social

media and find that many
are unuits
just like you

i have brought the tree
indoors then

went hunting the wren
and found it up by nannau

though had i sat quietly
by the house i will have
seen one there

perhaps i just wanted the exercise
with the air being clear and clean a
while

not thinking it comes good,

just write, share and eventually

correct, edit,delete



you like, comment.



on reading others ( pause ) regret these

simple ways



i am not clever, everyone is a writer.



she said so.



sbm.

it was in the wrong shed


it may be the right postcode

but up the wrong track, the

one i talked about yesterday


only i was walking down

i do sometimes if going

for a walk

or avoiding the others


it was dark and even with

the emergency light could

not see

so texted the farmer and he

brought it up for me



he may make a sign noting

that his is the wrong shed

it is minus one outside today,

a big fire in dubai. i saw the

grave digger yesterday, i thimk

my friend is died.



they say to be happy, we are,

we stil see the pity of the world.



we cry.



she is right, we may not get what

we wish for, mainly we gets what we gets.



sbm.

yet some have a differing

view

some are away all week



the peal of bells stop

leaving the air empty



lean on the wall/watch the cattle

note the shape/remember the

hissing



lately

we have a memory or two.   the world goes dark, we teach and learn,     wait  for    light to appear



it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things.



it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power,                                       they, no disgust that reels and kicks.                                  yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.



drift. in air, in words.  symbols of poetry, cut and pasted.                                       literally. naturally .



everyday tiny things sing.



when some small birds have failed and gone                                                 others sound just the same.



touched by the small things, softly, we drew





we cannot delete things we do not like

sbm

partially due to the weather

state of the roads



these are not just closed

due to snow

some

as cars slide          cause a commotion



it is a steep hill the crimea

some call it a mountain



steeped in history



plans change while

the bus windows remain *****



it has been a long time coming

it lasted many years now is gone



all of it

all the straight ideals and weathered work



who will come laughing?



who else loves rusted nails

reddened eyes?



all things change except they say one





look at

squirrels and disarray

the river ebbs  flows

tidal
otter marks erased

our lane quiet now

locals walk            leaves stir



birds fly up

in passing remember then

we laugh again



he  will bring logs again

accept things. easy? no, i wrote of this yesterday.



looks better in visual than stuck in mind. html.



go with the flow.                       we had thought

it was an eel fighting yet it     was some string

in the current.



he said he had used the wrong nails,

had hoped for galvanised.



it is alright, we are not in denial.



there is a spectrum.



sbm.

( notes on roots)

grow deep in ground may hold us down



i noticed the same in paintings at exhibition           looking out

the grave yard noticed a touch of colour                by the white



red that seeps insidiously into mind

spoils all things



things that can be mended



he said that most people throw broken plates away



the mass                                      the clouds lay heavy

rain 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

it is said that a relative married
a gipsy lady who lived at
redhill common in a tent

it is said she had two thumbs on each hand
like anne boleyn i think . too

that is why long sleeves were fashion then
to hide things

i think now we say romany

in kinson the jeffs lived round the corner
milhams

the men were lovely and i loved them
the ladies sold flowers, went to the square
by bus
and stayed all day
unless sold out early

it was nice to find
all their photos
on social media

as it was all a long
time ago

even then
things had started

we played with the gipsy folk
up on turbary common & julian
went with them when
they left their camp at
the brickworks

the police brought him back
they felt they knew best

they did not know the half of it

things took a turn
at the studio yesterday
&
left me tired

it is a different day today
with other plans

hows the job going?
how are your legs now?

6.55 am
raining

a long way to buy liquorice, anguish,
to draw, with draw.

remember the table,
bread and fruit, slate laid bare.

know that, when all is bungaloid
your heart lays elsewhere.

sbm.

the worst is over,
until the next thing begins.

you think me quiet, heartless
or not think of me at all, now.

i have sorted things, done the necessary,
yes. the worst is over.

i expect.

sbm.

stretched and squashed.

flat.  you have probably

seen it all.



before.

sbm.

damp drizzle
decorates
small spiders’ webs

(written 2 months back)

just to say that i am making changes due to the current situation.



will be working from home, and avoiding social interactions to

help prevent spread





why behave as normal when things are not normal

hope to see you  all when we are out the other side

water flows down this valley. wind blows

round our houses.i have said it before.yet



seems that those who should know better,

talk of gods, may judge the             people .





live in remote places.



between mountain, sea.      the land becomes



dry.



this arid land.



sbm.

the next course.



may be to meet the writer at the plas.

it is a big house, remember we walked

there this summer from the oakley.



up the drive, then back down again

later.



things change, i hope to change with

them.



this autumn.



sbm.

this bear appears without acknowledgement from you,

or you. not knowing the demands of an early life,

you cannot imagine the decisions, none made lightly.



you trip your tongue, then walk away. the bear arises

and sweats worry with torment until time tells.



it was  assumed that if you had not tried it,

you may still understand.



these loads are not too heavy,   the bear will find

other ways, then sleep again.



sbm.

where.



where does collaboration work?                  here.

with you, you, you and you, i have named you

before.

with tags and capitals,  links and other stable

placings.



i was only stitching.  a steady hand. it was an offer,

happily accepted.



i was only drawing. so we drew  together. here

& another place.



i was only writing a, yet there are       many of

us who came together.



we are alone, until we start working

together.



it comes a wider space, with mistakes and misgivings.

nothing in this world is perfect. it is raining today. the

washing is out.



neighbours    help.

writers help, drawers

line our walls with

notes & labels. a few



of us

work together.

sbm.

world glows a brighter good as they pass in time.                       it is an

omen.

is gone, i will look for it later.

it died in death, laid it gently
in the bathroom, on the soap
box, moving it only when the
ceiling leaked. we have had
some weather.

the pears soap box, has no moth
now, never mind, i shall search gently
in the light.

of day.

sbm.

to live in this place,

walk down to see fish,

waterboat men, dimpling

miniscus.



rest amongst bird

song, tapping the wood.



know you have

a piece of mind,



however fleeting.


sbm.


to be in this place.

enjoyed waiting with you, leaning on the fence. quietly remember you who made this place.   special.

it is not how you describe it,  is just natural

how i live.



and did he mind?



hello no. it was

just a natural way to live.



here.

from some one that wants all folk tidy

comes a promising revelation.

. stuff everwhere.



. brown and rustic.



from someone who wishes to clip

and straighten comes the point

of over growing.



isn’t it?



sbm.

last year we had a fire,
chill autumn. this
year it is warm. swallows
drift.

last year we had an upset,
this year it is warm. swallows
drift.

these are the falling days.

sbm.

shown me. i touched
those little hats.

knitted, note the
decreasing on the crown,
a tidy pattern.

a random change
of colours there.

touch, to feel the softness
the quality, it is a special
yarn.

only three ***** left, one
pink, two blue,
both reduced in price.

wish you had made them.

sbm.

mapped in mind, early
rose into hope at nine,
slowly slid as we cleared
the way.

other dreams caught us,
the colour, the flower.

wondered at the *******.
bottles, that have no meaning,
yet, mean everything.

it stood in dust for 30 years,
the rag inside a comfort.

as a museum. now jon lord
plays, the durham cathedral.

sbm.

rather a lot of words were said in friendship.

yesterday.

good words.

#writing for jamie.

words on health and well

being.

recovered, we admired

the socks, little boots.

she knew who i meant,  a small

description. the bluebells are down

the road she told us.

kind words come in memory and subjected

elements.

some folk cannot connect other than eyes

while some utter such kind words; honey

and furry bears.

sbm.

explorers do not really need fancy notebooks.



need a  tin compass,   in a box, quite cheap.

it is a new little ribbon,

for you. i will tie here,

yet not too tight.



it has been a long time now.



yes, said the bear.

a long, long time.



sbm.

my last sunday off work

a while

we close in january

just as well with this weather



all is quiet in town



& at home

find out that

that is more to do with the rugby

than snow



so plans are to watch andrew marr

with coffee

no cake

am intersted in politics randomly



the bread pudding i bought



is limp & wet

& only good with cream & sugar



after we tidy the crog loft with soap

and ingenuity

& knit later



the look on her face when

i said it is for homeless

which of course includes

refugees



i cannot forget

yet

am starting to fathom the meaning



only 3 degees below this morning

did you know that
i am scared of reading,
in public.

i pretend to be
famous, it does not work.

i tell you i stand here
before you, shaking, you
who encouraged me.

i like to be quiet, only
spoke
when you asked the question.

not sure why i came.
i think you invited me?

sbm.