i don’t use a teapot
but evidently many do,
and cosy up together.

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

stains the cup if left standing,
remember the hotel, 1964,
we used to scour them especially
round the handle, then the base.

breaking cups    spilling tea will abuse the hospitality
please come. i have the kettle on.    this is not the time
for hostility

there is nothing quite like changing stuff,
you see he always came on tuesday, but then
we started writing that day, so he will come
on thursday each month.

happy yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour
and oh that name come true.steve

is fading now
yet remains as the description

do not feel so great, again today.

i wanted to be european.

a bigger picture.

has beautiful spots james
while i like any pattern that includes spots
and any embellishment that is bows you
know
yet
i don’t know why
only as i say that
i think i may do
i guess that is a story for another morning
james

was dark blue with a little red added
lasted two weeks and still prominent

serendipidy
all is honesty
i have a witness.

evidence produced.

touch of red
suggested at dinner, to make
a photograph splendid, i noticed
the same in paintings at exhibition.

there was thing

to write about

yet

i forgot

it

tapering off into dots repeated
the fall is abrupt and possibly dramatic

‘ you mean it were the settings that was wrong ‘

yes.

‘so it was all your imagination?’

yes.

when you say gray, do you mean grey, as in lady jane or earl as in tea. when you say grey, do you mean gray, as in mary, my friend? do you mean that we all come from different countries.

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.

“kind of a 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

fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.

"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

that crayon is broke
beyond all hope
….

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

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

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.

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

the wood louse died and feel it was natural not ****** or an accident

a lot of this event here

an old house

feeling sad about it we remembered reading that the energy does not disappear

that it changes form

we smiled when we knew that and placed the tiny body in the compost

later that day we saw art from materials placed in compost

and smiled

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

feeling my way
through the history of this place

we should look after things
better. i wrote a thing a while
back. it filled my head with
pictures.