the year the storm broke, breached
the shingle bank

decisions were made
i hear
to not repair

we look for sand.

there is a nice long beach and lovely views out to sea
the sea that is rising

i like the greys and shadow.
i like when the cars go by,
the lights go across the walls

yes

‘ i do not think i will like very black’

stopped a while as the lightness started

round me they flew never touching
we laughed in delight
at this natural thing

write of parlay

we chatted over manners and harboured edges. these things … moved the line into a place of rural contemplation.

light the darker days
of gloom and melancholia
born from intrusions

and swede.

this is quality,
a fortunate piece.

in blue writing
as if
it is important
you see

your time will come

i will wait politely here until the day
and hope predicted don’t change
nothing
no more

while all around is trembling , we weave together
with dreams and possibilies.

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

once again we come back to ourselves.

small thing  ragged who knows all of it

pieces torn away

or

is it a moth here in the dark?


triangles bring mystery

a new mathematics.


the rooms were swept yesterday

bones hidden

teeth implied.



yet the shape remains embedded

sometimes dots

i looked out yesterday at the rain
on and off all day

tiny things become intimate

you may put them in cases, or hang on pins
straight or safety, it becomes political

the choice is yours

bulldog clips

'we were friends’  more than that with promises that faded into silence. i woke this morning the same….

she asked about side effects and though
after reading the instructions felt there

were none

noted before

when suddenly came the surge of energy

he said to wait by the war memorial

so i did &

counted the names.

from the first and second.

none mentioned from all the others before

or ongoing.

enjoyed the drizzle, the memories.

planes flew over and a text came

just before the fflecsi arrived.

honest marks and lines different from the immediate gratification of a photograph. though with the latter enjoys the  creativity of editing, layering ; drawing in on the original idea.

time passes, passes. mind  so focussed that world outside, own  skin forgotten.

eight thirty  till five.   it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning wasting time with wires and connections.

cover the surface.   it takes time.

where is the power house,
metal books he said.

concrete palaces for those
that prey.

he grew it plant like,
fought it,
numbered it
thirteen.

trawsfynydd, we forgot the buzzing,
only heard the wind, for
wind there was this time.

the sky predominant, a gap
for the light to pass

whisper from you came
a good idea
to stop those dreams and headaches

the moon came bright with yet another name

so flimsy it is hardly there.
so worn, it is almost dead.

recreate the dying in your head.

so small it is hardly there.
so cheap it is almost dead.

draw it. recreate the scene in your head.

yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour
and oh that name come true
on opening jim

is fading now
yet remains as the description

it was at the bus stop where the buses converge

transfer the passengers

where everyone talks though

not about that, nothing like that.

she came from dolgellau, said hello and talked about all those things, no fuss, just honestly ,

on the way to berlin.

shades defining.
now I have to say that I usually like
the colour as items, yet maybe not
as entity.
I face the slate
grey
and bleed red

no words to describe the mass,
the danger of it all, the hate  that
rises.
the parallel,
the home, the black chair.

power house.
bone house.

Good morning.

All nice here. Excellent morning yesterday in Corwen and although the Vintage Emporium was unexpectedly closed due to a power outage a nice time was enjoyed.

Poked about town and looked at the Coy carp in their shop and the old run down hotel is now community owned and has a pop up shop.

Went to the Welsh cafe for coffee, which is as hot as lava, a local told me.

No cooked meat available this Saturday in the butchers though the conversations  there are always good.

red depleted.i use blue,


oh the darkness of it all,the surface tension,primeval scream
hidden by centuries of crimson

a touch of red
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.

cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,
she asked why but i could not explain really. so
i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do
not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

Having spelt my name wrong, Bob , I wonder.

Everyone is separate, even with the same programme.

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

today, another power house installed,

i have to let some things go
now, yet this remains.

one seventy nine

=

one pound seventy nine

or

one pound and seventy nine pence.

is how we says it
here

walk the rooms in horror,
see genius in corners,
there.

realise that he may cry
all the tears of life.

mum gave us 3 d on wednesdays

for sweets or stuff.

we

went to the cafe  shop on the main road

for a ross puff candy

then back home placed on a saucer near the coal fire

to go melty.

on saturday last i  ate my first toasted marshmallow outside by the fire at bodnant gardens.

national trust.

asda man says he places melted marshmallow  between chocolate biscuits.

sandwich.

he seemed surprised yesterday that i had completed the task

to ensure the proportions looked right for me

it is part of the job and if it is diaried must be done

now your name may be redeemed
your wanderings freed into new

adventures

or maybe you will still stay inside a while

inside the boundary lines

four fields

corona

they  do not know the darkness
how the light can fade into latin
& all things unreasonable

today i write of glass and ashes inspired before
then swept by other’s moments witnessed  the cleaning

just now on you tube  saw

a photo of douglas bader

you know

the pilot

& you know

was surprised he looked nothing like

kenneth more

we shall never know
for there is no microscope
here
moving on i feel it was a flashback
to the girl who wished for quiet and
can remember  in detail

seems we gets busy here and there
yet cannot verbally explained why we write
and paint

bert is no name for a storm, more like a neighbour in green road that time back, or the uncle  i was told of yet never met.

grey flannels with braces and maybe a moustache.  growing vegetables down the back and interested in  pigeons.

even a foster parent  playing the guitar to make one feel comfortable

while feeding you a kipper  for supper.

perhaps then an apt name after all

such is the change of time
i have been around for  an
hour
extra

may reappear.

whatever reason,

comfort for some that there are recognitions.

early yet
I have to tell you
that
i went a different way
to avoid the usual

and maybe, and probably
i cannot fix it
so will look after it
admire it daily
unless it rains

james

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue

the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine

we dig our selves into the hillside

the time you talk about unremembered.

perhaps I was never there

or unaware

so have dug into this hillside

placed tidily in awareness

of all that is happened,

happening