dark, still, no birds sing.

slowly without ceremony,
sun will creep, small birds,
all that, happens, radio

plays into those moments.

the window is closed,
colder now. autumn is
here,

last evening she read the letter from Joyce.

we talked of god and the making.

the set was described, security lights
threw trees into shape and number, signs
that most things have a joy. there were
two hearts,

a space between.

it may be raining today.

tacked.

and there, unfinished,

tacked and smocked

the littled dress

sewn quietly with love.



i know.


i have done this,

when all else are asleep,

stitching, thinking,

listening to the rain.



when the voices stopped,

i asked how much.



one pound? yes

i will love it, thank you.



fled quickly away

maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he

gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.

he is home from holday.

men will sing with three voices,
and dance in their suits,
and i will be headlost, and dizzy.

leaving the coat
to bathe in pools
of light, under green,
dripping back into
the coat , red coat.

** notes from the red coat, a prediction.

some of the people
have double numbers,
speak in two tongues,
sing with three voices.

all being equal, the song
is sung in whatever
language, or creed.

indeed, we often say
the name of those, so
seeming to become
boring,

we carry on, we carry on.

plan visits to new places,
the sky is dark this morning.

i may like to have an exhibition,

of my small and useless things,

i make, which utterley

have no importance whatsoever.



probably a complete

waste of time,

in some minds, however

i should like to

arrange them

in some small room,

with dust

and motes that fly

in the sun’s beams.



you could scratchit there.