the hill is a mountain, this time.

crimea pass,the road to llanrwst.

as we drove, i thought, i would
be happy if i lived in such a place.

i do, and so i am.

knew he was coming near. said hello.

we stood together quiet, he turned.

i went to the bridge as always,
down along the river
bank
and back.

he had waited at the gate.
i looked at his legs so long,
held her up to see.

they seemed to like each other too.

we all stood quietly together.

up the road the bus burned black.

a leaf fell, i thought of you.

i did not phone.



requiem.

do you remember
the pause
between words?

do they remember
the place on spine
where water dropped.

bone.

being early, we can write a while,
unstressed by the ticking of the
clock, keeping words in order
in lines, of no principle. all the

photos were hazy, must have
been the walking, smartly
before the opening time,
the lay line, arthur’s stone.

is at the mill.

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

the radio is old, retro,
gift for a birthday,
arrived late we did not say,
not
wishing to upset.

headlights flash, sheep
on the road,
the pheasant run, a pleasant
run, minding squirrels, other odd
furry things on the road.

hurt no living thing.

it rained all day, new
dress on the line, still wet.

google brings strange memories.

my friends talk of the coat hanger
effect. hanging our wares on each others’
shoulders, bearing us all down with the weight.

share it out they say, with friends and family,
loose and flowing, mind your engine does
not pink, we must have finer fuel. not feeling

our true self can be an infliction, the grave digger
reminds us of our years, our sense of humour.

we stare at icons, hope for a better price,
i went to the market yesterday.



notes ** maybe place in cupboards,
boxes, close the door, the lid,
carry on, carry.