were built where the chickens did live

where the old cottages were and some time back a photo occurred to remind.

bungalows

seemed modern to me, then the Shirley’s came, Mr and Mrs, with two boys in short trousers.

brian and the other one

they had wallpaper with galleons on while we had distemper  that was best not to lean on

my mum looked after those boys and once took them to grans

think it was Brian who slipped on the glass roof he climbed and split his leg open

next to them were a lady who had a baby born and showed me how to breastfeed with a rubber **** and me a child under 8

i think there were three bungalows in all

them days mother did not shop at coop,  nor did her mother  either, something regarding dividends

storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled
awash a while
black things fade and all is grey

win or lose hedge your edge
write of parlay

there is not much more to add, it is lighter
now.                                       birds sing early.

once again we come back to ourselves.

metaphor.

which previously i called a small holding

provided us with murdered birds

heads bitten off

saved mum a job there

and when they sold it along with the old cottages set back

the bricklayers came and while  low down in their building

i ran round the back of our house despite her warning

fell

broke my head open

those brick layers took me to the hospital in their van

a towel wrapped round

two stitches

i bear the scar still

and they built bungalows

this is a little model.

it may be full of
metaphor.

it is warm and i worry
about the ice melting

spoke to others yesterday about
banning the word coping as a negative
thing, said with sympathy
head to one side.

it feels a frail word and does not apply