surprising, probably teasing,
hopefully.        it was said.

deflated, we walked the lane,
watched the flood.     water

everywhere, washed the car
needlessly. tidied
the outbuilding, swept the

cellar.       it has been
raining a lot recently. be

careful what you say.

sbm.

clear faces deny rumour

speculation comes rife

history books packed

stacked among other stories



locked in boxes

bound



thickened scars are evident

evidence of a secret place

though we say we have none



none will know

we shall not tell



note how the fallen have fallen

over there



balance is a quiet thing



you cannot hide

not even here



you are found out

when you say gray, do you mean grey, as in lady jane or earl as in tea. when you say grey, do you mean gray, as in mary, my friend? do you mean that we all come from different countries.



he has no knowledge of twigs, his mother had the secret, as do i. he has the knowledge of acting, it was quite a performance, as they were the same twigs

i have written of them before, now in code and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity. autumn comes round, and we keep the litte things, again

it has always been the same, water going down hill, thick frost of winter’s morning.   now the birds song at 4 am, bad news soften by dreams, new days.     it has usually been the same

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

yes i have help each month some years the tree man comes i fiddle every day. lifting logs. i may get stronger. it is abutting a church yard

more than that when birds sing.   when  water lowers, seeps away.   twigs are left, shattered .   farmers out, later neighbours chopping logs, stop to talk of other days, bled from a photo.   still a solitary thing

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

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

he has no knowledge of twigs,
his mother had the secret,
as do i.

he has the knowledge of acting,
it was quite a performance,
as they were the same
twigs.


no photos allowed.
©sbm

..hello day 12..

reflecting on how the twigs were a worry

then i made them decorative



you see



there is a large tree in the garden

and during storms branches fall

so do do all the tiny twigs



lay underfoot

now in lockdown a while

started clearing them gathering into my apron

into the house and on the fire

with there being no garden waste collection at

my house no more



is a long story, a bit personal and got a refund

anyhow



so the fire burns up real lovely



returns to the garden to gather more

this time in a bag

therapeutic

ready for the kindling

will not be buying morning sticks no more

a while



2

it has always been the same,

water going down hill,

thick frost of winter’s morning.



now the birds song at 4 am,

bad news soften by dreams,

new days.     it has usually

been the same.



sbm.

crunch

where we slid last week

hard where once there was mud



gasp in cold air

touch the silver

spears



we are sorting wood

into piles

twigs into kindling

worry into calm



we are noting the vortex

the sensibilty from friends



the end of january feel

the stove is still warm this morning



1

are suggested quickly, no time taken to

utter the words. yet. it will take a while

to order, to plant, it will all be lovely,

unless bitter words entice despondency,

low spirits from a loss of hope, of courage.

we shall carry on until the paint runs out,

then we shall clean the old rugs., order two hundred

bluebells.

he often has good ideas.

sbm.

looked at it while writing       distracting

while the pen ran out

studied it further



matt black brushed to cleanness

cavernous yawning quest



half mooned            flowers dancing

all the while             while



twinned atop currently

turn of the century



deco



shell rimmed

comely dark



a good reproduction

in reduction



salvage hunter

no one about

the whole way down the back road.

two squirrels so i talk to them, and the tiny

dunnock bird



he said they are  brown

down

in the dirt and this is so



they often are as  are we

all



good place to be in earth

to plant and grow while



small birds look for food



the story continues





now you know that the bird has died

and her wish was to preserve it somehow



that was yesterday



she had balanced it on a cotton reel, you know the old wooden ones with red thread.

this balancing thing

started years ago

in childhood, a game. later life a habit, a meditation.

she watched others, the artists balancing stones

copied , then balanced all sorts, soaps. boxes, anything really.

perhaps it is a control thing she supposed as she balanced the bird.



today



it stays easily. she looks a long time, takes her phone

and photographs.



looks, looks

adds objects.

photographs .

waits for dusk, for the light to change

lowers and photographs. a different app and repeat

another photograph.



a rest

to diary  checks on the body each day for corruption, by now in the

clean studio below.

she had tried other things in the past to preserve. a robin in the freezer all the time she was away and had  been succesful in that it was complete but came with her fear of the thaw : so never was.

now  next to the peas in the vegetable section.

the shrew had been sat in a nutshell and had dried naturally as did the  bird that came down the chimney and stuck in the stove that summer. found on a chill day when opening the door to start a fire.

she makes the decision on drying though knows the chances are slim.

meantime the photographs continue and move on to scanning the wee thing alone, then with varying backgrounds and degrees of success.

skulls .

there are a lot of skulls down here in the studio. a few any way. she is prone to her own excitement and exaggeration.

bird skulls found, placed, kept, some  on cotton reels under glass domes. her father had done that now she followed his lead. she remembered the time he had placed a mouse corpse under a bell jar to see how that worked

he was dismayed at the decay and mildew; the stench when he lifted that jar. his experiment a failure.



it was that  same day when the news was full of belsen, the camps and with that smell of one dead creature  as company he despaired at history. he despaired still over the present time, wordless.



he had told her about it all over and over in shame for what they had done; still do.



her mind had wandered back, with time to remember, reflect. she drags back to the now to the task in hand.



the preservation.



the words remain.



** each chapter a day; each day a chapter, each chapter a bird.

each day a drawing



so she continues in the studio drawing.

she likes this  feeling

of

honest marks and lines different from the immediate gratification of a photograph. though with the latter she enjoys the  creativity of editing, layering ; drawing in on the original idea.



time passes, passes. her mind  so focussed that world outside her own  skin forgotten.

time passes.

the bird

preserved.

it is a gift.





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.

ignore the torch,

most of those places

have candles, and a



list for prayers.



sbm.

june the third. the theme is imaginary

as opposed to real. who knows which

is which?

we found the coats and left, he was

not sure who he was, any more. there

is a certain style, that is not the norm.

that should not be entertained by some.

we entertain each other.

if remembered.

or

was it all imaginary. we are adults now.

life lessons.

sbm.

daily prompt isn’t it

was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground,
it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we
mended things, with love and string.

it is a challenge, 52 , to even think and google
meanings.

many types, immeasurable, not three nor for all
of us. yet those of us who do, may trust blindly,
childishly love our toys, cherish home, hold
memory.

i looked up, that does not mean i love you.

narcissus.

sbm.

we lerned how to play,
one letter at a time or
they gets stuck.

badly.



sbm.

it happens to most of us,
some times, other times,
seem good, almost boring.

it knocks us sideways,
even assunder. i asked you
to carry me.

yet, you left me outside
in the rain. it has been
like this for days. wet.

most of us get over it.

use an umbrella.

sbm.

bone of the soul

earthy dark
below ground

no crystals here
no cave
no tight spaces

we have a freedom

i cannot see
it takes another to
show to me

talk of sea spray
early years
and the price of food
these days

tax on bags
and sculleries

language speaks of other days
small boys with
m box five
or something

back to the cathedral
where the book says
it is all for nothing anyway
talk about giving hope away.

a spiritual reduction, a sad deduction
from some who should
know better

blind. the blinkered corridor.



lead us.

take us.



to the end.



tea and toast.



simple hospitality.



you never learned this one,

did you?



sbm.

not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.

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.

the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.

harp strings
relay the vital net,
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,

lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

he suggested that it was too nice
a day to work,. i did not mind.

had two good days with him,a small
child growing.

it was warm, a busy day, with folk
on holiday.

i tell you it is a pretty
place, i wonder if you
understand what that means.

this does not have a title,
as far as i can see,
does not really say much.

really.

sbm.

demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the  words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is  a small hope to always return home.
sbm.

it is about a moment,

not pondering #too much,

if at all possible.



about finding things, #forgotten



about caring, restoring, showing

that things can be done,

kept for posterity.



so we wash and #mend it,

take photographs

#draw it



then show it to you.



sbm.

. one wish.

that all

folk. be

kind to another,



each other.the one next

to the one next, repeating.



a photo challenge.





sbm.

so now the green house
is white, even the top,
where i could not reach.

he used a ladder.

we spoke of nettles how
i like the height yet
not fond of falling on
them.

he had to crush them to reach,
yet we agreed they will
soon grow again.

meanwhile, the clouds gathered,
in the evening we had rain.

sbm.

he came early today. screaming round the garden.

a gentle feel, all chill and autumn mist already,
with us only mid august, yet we know the signs the feel,
the smell of the tide in the air, here.

we panic as the small boy grows, as times passes.

they say quicker now, yet i am not so sure.

i went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
world. stood in the bank some time, only one
assistant these days.

the sun colours the clouds with empathy.

sbm.

beasts of fire
and guilt,
cannot fly, nor trace
the air with wings.

tethered angel,
in despair lowered eyes
and wept.

for those assunder,
need no
deprivation.

play the music softly.

we heard the canary sing.

sbm

bone of the soul

earth below ground

no crystals . a cave with tight spaces.



your words come different, while

with your question come forth

sense of

another world

metaphors, inuendos



a door into an other world

painting dark



i hold myself proud and read

it all

a medieval verse, a tale

of gone days

these days

your days

not mine

gender



sharp bits the tongue

rendered down with shades

from a darker day

we shall leave the upper room,
as others left before.

all comes slowly, let it be.

let the converastion over take
the drawing, drawing out ideas ,
allelujas of creativity.

let the friends come slowly,
join the group. we shall draw.

we shall use the lower chamber.

I have a letter from a friend.

sbm.

some mornings while drifting

i see the writing in my head

come patterned, neat lines balancing

dancing with the rain

at the window

on waking



yesterday we remembered blancmange

and jelly,  ideal milk and water

pineapple that split cream



food that touched



yesterday we remembered our granmas

our mothers



bundles of cotton with  colours

required for mending always



yesterday she explained to sew

the four holes in synchronicity

tight

on linen



yesterday the words came easily with labels

and names





today on brightening

forget

they are serving teas and cake in the hall with bunting.



my interest is the bull that lives on the parkland. there.



i slows if no one is behind to look .         or stop a while



he seems to like leaning over watching the traffic, while



i fall in love.                                                  it is a pretty face.



up the road the hotel is closed down.                             now.



sbm.

caged.

it is all there

if you look

little birds

dave asked about the utility bell, and war time candles,

following the wax theme, yesterday. i got my household

ones, 5 hours burning time, yet to be proved. they offered

me dinner candles, but i had leftovers ready, so kept quiet

on that score.

anyway, dave, over here, we had rationing as you know,

which continued afterward. things had to be simple,

saving stuff and time, and had a mark like two hungry birds.

mum bought the utility bell in woolworths, from the flat counter,

simple cut out metal, good colour, much valued in those days,

alongside papery chains and lanterns.

our tree had candles, i do not know when lights began,

i still have her candle ends left, fancy twisted, faded now.

i keep them special, use the newer ones , red and plain, and

remember my mum,

i will scan these to show you dave, later.

it is still raining.

talking of cages they would be useful here

to keep the wild things escaped from cats

who ******

to heal

down by the park
was a wee bird sanctuary

next to the vicarage

we would call by to look
in the cages

guess it was free

i was at school with the vicar’s
daughter

she had recovered from polio
or a bad car accident

i don’t remember which it
was all a long time ago

their house was

down by the stream that
ran the side of the road

they say I was one of the first
to have the jab

I heard other parents say that they
would not allow it

i did not mind though I remember fear
of the needle

and more the fear of polio

we showed him the iron lung at the science
museum only last year

really

look at the little people.
arms held high. the medicine
is in the cabinet, they cannot
reach it.

grey  day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.

this is the valley
of the widow.

this is the day.
writing  the wall,
trees stand tall.

yellow flags, the route,
to glyn y weddw.

know these things.
life will bring. words
in books, paper air.

a name that still remains.

write it.

sbm.

they may be cheaper,

plain packaging, yet

the strength is there,

as is the ply.



sit neater on the holder,

work better, so

i shall continue

to buy them,



conserving cash.



sbm.

‘ is dark at night, i lay here looking’

yes



‘ not totally black though,

i like the greys and shadow.

i like when the cars go by,

the lights go across the walls’

yes



‘ i do not think i will like very black,

not vantablack like anish kapoor’



said the bear quietly.



its is alright to say so.



sbm.

bottle is a short word in varying degrees. a slight one.

can be alleviated with unnecessary treats, curling round in soft places. lift the spirits with little things, be glad it is not a more serious form of the obsession.



bottle

she

lay  as dead did not speak                  nor ask for   fear

lay quiet        did not write nor tell          there    were

new shoes by the wardrobe                        at an angle



still



did not move nor participate in  anyway

did not breathe nor cry                        there are    new

shoes by the wardrobe                                  new shoes



found



guilty                                                             always guilty



there was no charge

there was no trial



there were no photographs

no evidence                                  no one talks of it no more



she no longer breathes



no more

so the bear has become a companion.



of sorts in times of sress

and needlessness.



i call him darling sometimes,

not often.



some days he stays in bed ,

not often.



some people are witnesses, study

the evidence.



i prefer the bear.



sbm.

some people are more eager to please

more pliable

than others



some keys gets stuck

then the words make

no sense



some days things go awry

we make the best of it



start again with planning

and the handy man. mud

gets muddier as the rain

falls



it feels like constantly



then we forget why we are here

and settled

my radio played

the memorial



he said that they

shut them inside

and burned  them

to the ground





the villagers

little red house

little white house

conversions

near

those blossom laden fruit trees



in the country



start of life

my beautiful childhood



red house  first; emptied

hollowed chambered



breathe breathe………



the rest of  your life…



breathe breathe

zyklon b





drag them

bury them



oh then build a another  little cottage

build it white, like a  pretty village





plant small flowers, warm the water

empty



breathe breathe







they stand waiting



it takes up



to 20 minutes

until the silence



zyklon b



drag them

bury them

hold your breath



he lived by the village with his  fair children; a beautiful childhood

little  theatre conversion

commander

butchers blood



no record of him hitting anyone

nor killing them personally



he commanded



middle-class  son husband and father



****** murderer

over a million



it is



reported that

he hoped to reeducate the jews



zyklon b



reported  that he killed himself using an electrical extension cable

fastened to a rear window handle just 1.4m from the floor



death was far from instantanious



zyklon b

cyanide pesticide

conversion



.the second part.
may not be written

though they have taken notes



the truth can be too much

for them to share



long deep ditches

full to brimming



the man on the tv

told it how it #is



#was

early while driving.                     omen repeating



sometimes the sun comes lower after the crest



one moment



imagine them marching,           slow & white.



will you name them?



in the wake all things come clear.



slow & white.



later below the peaks i tell him. he said it is

the dark crystal.



sbm.

softly. it moved.
seen from the corner
of an eye. crept
round the edge,
looking.

slid round the door
and out.

i feel it lives
in the shed.

sbm.

repeat.

vivid(2+3)=vivid(5)

or

vivid(2+3)-vivid(5)

is nought.

there is nothing found.

yet algebra and geometry are used

to build the castle.        this is vivid.

this is maths.

sbm.

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 to shine.

these are the days, the marches.

after

idly chat to neighbours, to fetch
the dog, to dawdle, to wind
slowly down.

the snowdrops are out.

sbm.

it is a longer way,

mostly up hill then,

down.



we go round one way

one day,

then another way,

another day,



avoiding people.



mainly, yet we

talk to the stone mason

who likes to avoid

people too.



once i came this way with you.



sbm.

yesterday i told her of my cynicism,

my issue with predictions, using phrases

that were a load of.



she agreed heartily plus i told

you so, look at the bench marks.



so i carry on without you. it is

not about money



or recognition.



sbm.