yet the days moved nicely. there were little troubles, nothing to diminish the beauty of it all.

you know
all neat and patterns with orange
usually

was worried over the empty barn. .it  survives,
some
way.

we are little things
that dance in the mornings
james
by the light of the phone….

large rocks
fenced off yet
maybe i will
creep through
and touch
one quiet day

one stone
one finger touch
a ritual

who knows what lies underneath
here the land goes up and down
water drains
into rivers

undeniably tracing honesty in the air
with one finger
pointing

it came clear later..

old story remembered
that warm afternoon while all were playing
relaxing.
the hunted tried not to sleep
there

grass
holds the sand.
sand holds
the grass.
have you walked the dunes
hollowed path, coconut gorse.
have you found contentment there?
have you sat the sun, black crow bird,
have you closed your eyes at that
within, enjoyed that
without?
the tin hut is still empty.

imagine you a pirate, with stripey trousers
and a large black patch.

on imagining things
sometimes scare myself silly

yesterday a sea fret, misted trees,
added edge ; visual delight.

i like this road to there.

driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,

pale words a clue in the breathing
the stone set left in barns

caught the words hopefully in burning hands thinking that the sky was clear

though in the past
never so far away

need to move them into a place
of loose adjustment
of random offerings
and sketchy lines

we went out on the chain ferry across to the beach
all sun sea gulls and possibilities
day of freedom

all became a thing yesterday
regarding these marks of ours
and we finished
on this
i hope you do not mind

we look for sand
there is a nice long beach and lovely views out to sea
the sea that is rising

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

unlike the landscape hereabouts yet only up the road
up the road where all comes beyond reality to help with reality

is all a pattern, that keeps us safely,        moves us
onward.

my quiet friends felt shaky
weary while getting back to
somethings

sometimes
a while in a box
will do nicely…

listen, repeat the
random insects.
stitch another way.

spread out as cotton threads
knotted
&
i will not mention the word

liking rags
i move on
with differing
music
the trial by glass

required for mending always
yesterday she explained to sew
the four holes in synchronicity
tight
on linen
yesterday the words came easily with labels

i think my work,
my soul
is in
my chest.

they did not know she had many, neither did she. just collected one item at a time, cared fully for         each one of them.                                                                                                          catalogued

a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

moving on i feel it was a flashback
to the girl who wished for quiet and
can remember  in detail

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

careful what you dream on a cusp of night. know that all stars are not the same.

seen  through the net nightly.

a thing so private, so intense .   . simple , complex. no one will see it .    

                      note your achievements to date.                     .hell no

maybe connections are missed the link dismissed.    
metaphors faint as my flimsy whispers  

look closely

best to be gentle with those and all other things…

new mathematics

the rooms were swept yesterday
bones hidden
teeth implied

yet the shape remains embedded

power house looms ahead. they pray for peace and family, their lovely homes and salary. pigs. work for the people supposedly.

slipped sideways.
while all remains the same, something is different.

do not know everything
only my version
a fraction of the whole
blue sky thinking
here

mainly red,

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue,

the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine

pause like in breathing

I hope you don’t mind
and that is how it started

like gradually the markers came
maybe someone someday will
see them
suddenly

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

power house.
bone house.

dark/ we painted it
all vaguely national
trust

blows ideas into our houses
messages bring connections
a busy day with folk talking

things will do for now
until it changes again
slightly

there was a gentle breeze going, then
the sun came through.

slower morning here today. the radio plays.
dove grey overcast sky. heavy they say.
maybe rain?

we need to concentrate on detail
to describe things properly
need to
go there each year a while
to retain to remain in memory
need to
care for  little things

doubly,
font and image.
to twice the normal extent
or degree.
things happen, we deal,
cards are set, dice thrown.
life moves on.