told you, no one will listen if we are quiet,
they have all lost interest’

yes.

‘do they only listen to loud folk , those that  shout
and remonstrate’

seems so.

added bits and embellishments which caused remark
while the space between lines was so immense my head came heavy with drowsy
fell off
&
i did not return

traces remain hidden for the most part
only to come out on particular
occasions
without  warning

she said it without  warning
& i was horrified

bought her tea set gently in parts
each week from woolworths and i still have
some of it

pink.

research is kind, we have tried many colours.

we ate the cake, yet not wishing to appear
greedy left a crumb.

for a bird.

darker.

especially the mornings,
i need not tell you really,
you must know.

ok if there is no rush to go,
easy, cosy up and write.

like flags that are decorative
or bunting that represents a

happy time

i dislike borders
representations of separation

don’t use a teapot

but evidently many do,

and cosy up together.

they don’t squish teabags, have leaves,

and stewing on the gas ring,

like mother, reducing it to

poison on my tongue.

i like the leaves to look at,

smell, like the small packet

we used to have, paper lined

in those days.

splits into fragments, pieces

that don’t fit

it is all a puzzle

stood steady in wonder

watched the dark bleed

across the sky

watch birds scatter

we thought about the things my brother

said about the tea plantations

in india

he does a big trip somewhere each each year

except last year and probably this year too

rain comes here in waves
reflecting feelings

sometimes i can smell the sea
though some miles from the shore

moving out into the landscape
differing thoughts with exercise

added

on hearing rain early
delay the start of it

.from the archive.

google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
be twins.

..adding pink..

oh unsuitable paint you
covered lovely with no
comments as all are at
home

skimmed slates that bounced about
unlike the pebbles that grow on our banks here
unlike the landscape hereabouts yet only up the road
up the road where all comes beyond reality to help with reality

deep holes,
cut grass and wiping stones.
there is a place.

.raining.

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low
over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.
all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.
grey.

so in the mist of memory my 15 minutes passed  without concentration and went indoors after

one way,
and  another.

up poole hill
or down.

you kissed me.

i have the same,
usually, i felt like
a change today.

tidy beach
soft sand and honest stones
to be fortunate here

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

let us look at things, differently.

often, we do things, no one ever sees.
that is you and me. two of us
dancing on the sand.

it came
and went,
quickly.

do not wish to hide
do not wish to run
to take the boat and steer
to take the hiatus i fear

the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

adrift, will the sky at last explode, or will this hate
continue pointlessly, for  thousand thousands years.
numbers that cannot describe each particle of pain.

decide which
petulant shadow hides
integrity.

honesty abounds yet the flags
will find us.

went to blaenau in the rain
you may google that so best
add ffestiniog to the name

from the windows saw,

the softest steam morning

on the mountain.

the promise of another

day in wonderland.

old story remembered  from the beach
that warm afternoon while all were playing
relaxing
the hunted tried not to sleep
there
for fear of being robbed or found

the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

the clouds waiting as you
say
there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff
becomes fact
a place one can recognise

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


the sea that is rising

was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry

water flows down this valley

wind blows round our houses

most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.

have a photo here of up the valley
where they used to stook the harvest

all the family out working the fields

in the evening it came cooler
for rest

the sounds
softer.
once the day is dawn, the door is open, face the sky, all
comes well some days.

talk goes on all day, about the heat,
the rain and drizzle,
no thoughts on the shipping
forecast. words red, remembered.

the bird, the boy, the machine,
there is only air between.

a challenge to describe   these trees as suggested

the gentle good,  dawel disgyn,  little time

left, nor funds for flying.

.so we move forward differently once again.

.while you remain in mind.

some thing is changing here,
so slight it can hardly be
noticed.

yet it has been.  a feeling,
came with the light rain .

the quietness

all things are changing

while in the studio a series
commenced
marching in time
across the board

at dusk the view magnetic

sometimes you know
i have no clue as to what
is occurring
here

or over there

find it challenging

and disappear

( notes on darkness) more fairy lights is all that is needed, radio music, and padding about really….

did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?   did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?        did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …

drawing the child with found fabrics
watching the marks come good, no dots
intended
yet they came
without warning

they waved and smiled
i watched the sewing
i watched the stars
the seating all arranged