alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

work is steady, absorbsion
as if the outside world
is ended. looking up
find it has not.

stamped a hundred times
in rhythm,
war of the worlds.

a call, a message.

i was not excited.

it is forever autumn.

the poem read in steady voice
resounds. begs to share.

sending words out for pictures,
sending pictures out for words.

the voice reads on regardless.

a small thing remembered,
in mind, in music, the sharing.

the collaboration.

hearing everything in return,
unwanted, unwilling to partake
in all the particulars.

time will tell, while
decisions come quietly.

are you tired of waiting,
do you grasp the mettle,
write it down?

young man.

one bolt left,
not for sale as a whole.

yet carefully cut, sewn, packed,
the small room, it is available
to share.

have you heard his voice
high over mountains, repeating.

do you like this cloth, tradition weaves,
these old skills.

having told him this, the work continues.

rewritten, cannot write  the feeling,

feeling the rain              soak through.

hours, wandering                  the lanes,
finding the shore,     my independence.

watching the silversmith,  birds sing,

water

logged, lost,                                 happy
in the knowing.

suggested at dinner, to make
a photograph splendid, i noticed

the same in paintings at exhibition.

looking out, the grave yard, noticed
a touch of colour by the white.

walked down to find a new grave.

then, i tidied yours.

you, who disliked a touch of red.