we named it best eleven.        dark the day,           we are survived.

light came, we saw the green ness of it all.                          we live in the country.

pool of fear,

the fright of interrogation,

guilt,

i hear.

from where comes the mourning,

late afternoon,

and evening….

goes where it leads me, a kind of conversation between me and the work, but drawing on what is in mind.

“A kind of diary?”

things come awry and we leave it so

the random nature of things

faintly corrupted

saw you fallen

&

photographed you

yet could not save you

nor

any of them

you are a metaphor

comes a wider space, with mistakes and misgivings.

nothing in this world is perfect. it is raining today.

save old card for drawing on and bending about all messy


charcoal gets everywhere and causes coughing
so have been neater recently and careful

"Is art a box that you climb into?”

“Well, yes, I guess it is. I never thought of it like that”

“Are you compartmentalizing?”

like in a circus those days

now there are no animals
mainly clever folk being smart
or funny

find pieces of jigsaw

everywhere here,

and they

don’t fit

together.

if i try

they make

the wrong picture

quiet slow and uneventful

it left lasting impressions

a simple drawing out

some doubt climate change

despite the science

she says we shall have sunny spells

looking up

see rainbows

&

the small plane still flies over

most days

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

yes i am inclined to agree; it will be an uphill journey
for us both.
to learn, to grow

Shoreline would be more an exploration of the concept….shorelines more related to actual examples…..how about that?

we shall have more drawings
i can see the marks & lines
pushing through

despite the weather

yet i will rather say that all things are

on a spectrum

of colours & ideas

nothing is one colour only,      as decided

in invented rules.  for we are all different

minimal
on the same paper
as before

i understand

do not know everything

only my version.

a fraction of the whole

blue sky thinking

here

now i remember that you saw the night

properly

while here we wondered, got lost in our

head

looked up and found the morning had

come pink again

scattered light in particular places

the other in shade

the clouds hang heavy

the mass, the clouds lay heavy, rain that came, that blinded again. blinded those that could not see the love and idle artefacts, each one a statement of nothing in particular.

some make mistakes

i do and avoid the capitals

main thing is to weather the storms
and visit daily

i too lean slightly

tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.

i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.

the pattern remains the same,
the sentences longer. this is not an issue, and is
accepted gratefully.

they say that the latter will bring immense relief,
to try it consciously.

paper covers history.

bent on layers

of time, pretending.

darkness descends

with out the need for words. pray for

forgiveness if you are so inclined.

island monkeys could not

go abroad

no boat

no plane no nothing

sadly they read books on other countries

with adventures, himalayas & ranuph fiennes

no words to describe the mass,

the danger of it all, the hate  that

rises.

the parallel,

power house.

bone house.

high, mountain track,
scattered trees, country
road.

spend the day , waterlogged
moor, black rooted, bring it home.

tides are higher now, flooding the paths. he walked the mud, bringing the footsteps back to us

we watched it come down over the mountain spreading

slowly

as the cloud passed by the sun

after cooling indoors we went to see

the maker in the lower field

we watched it come down over the mountain spreading

slowly

as the cloud passed by the sun

after cooling indoors we went to see

the maker in the lower field

we should look after things
better. i wrote a thing a while

back. it filled my head with
pictures.

will watch the film on perception tomorrow alongside

another. red & white.  they say it will change my life.

meanwhile i **** boxes.

said old people fold notes

&

i felt insulted.

she said it bothered her a lot

when she counted them.

we should keep them flat

&

others may agree

who defines the different

level of thought

is there a manual

with charts and graphs

a litmus test to testify

that the thought got tangled

some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.

this one remained bright,
even glaring

seems there may be some connection

some call it a trigger

some things leave us cold and wondering

hope to revert to an earlier
idea of smudge and carbonate

james

you see
there is no control
only that we think we have
which is probably all imagined

hesitate again

look down

regret my first sentence

now

maybe will say it some other time

now

a pinky glow

she said that it was the coldest night for years

and I forget how many

storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled

awash a while.

black things fade and all is grey.

win or lose hedge your edge

write of parlay.

there is not much more to add, it is lighter

now.                                       birds sing early.

once again we come back to ourselves.

metaphor.

this is a little model.
of how it was then.

it may be full of
metaphor.

is warm and i worry
about the ice melting

spoke to others yesterday about
banning the word coping as a negative
thing said with sympathy
head to one side

it feels a frail word and does not apply

comes a differing hue

with duck egg blue.

the ironmongers in town

at one seventy nine.

we can walk there and back or there

and bus back you see.

he said folk get used to anything

find

the memories are not as you may think.

i have new ones.