winding we hurry

to reach the top

climbing to a



safe place with hope



often the stars  are reflected below

we are artists without borders, we give and share,

not expecting anything.



in return we are part of it all, and pleasantly

accepted without judgement.



the journey is endless to join as desired.



i am a curator, a book about death in wales,

loosely bound, conceived by another



in memory.



ray johnson.



fluxus.

wish i wrote like you guys, wish it were more direct.



it has been noted as abstract, yet i cannot see that.



he wanted a garden, this one. we  looked

at other houses, he wanted this one.



with

a garden as seed for the future.



when he died i let it grow and hid here. now

i tidy , grow seeds for the future.

it is said i write abstract, in time to save

your feelings. you asked me to explain,

i did so lightly. the other said no one else

dare ask.



i tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.





i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.



was loathe to read it for i may cry.

you wish a pretty picture yet i cannot

make it.



i thank you for asking, where others

do not read.



the writing circled

too much chatter to think

on the books i read.



remember the mix and match

of a scattered life.



i too remember wonderland.



not all is as it seems in hay

on wye.



he lost his wife.

earth and heaven.

in time

i will leave you six

items,



like he said.



five you say you want,

one to mend some things.



the bear, the other bear,

the others plus

a pin.



encapsulated.

rain came, seeds will grow.



watered places i cannot reach,

**** half full.



noisy day, farmer making hay,

lambs  moved from  mothers.



they say the sun will come

later to dry.