dark the day came

even with the sky

real blue.


the helicopter flew over.

the power house reflected

elected

james?

will this all be for nothing

if you make no changes

the back road was
littered, rather blustery.

today
we have a darker day

courage to walk away
from objects that irritate
our eyes, to eat another way,

with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean

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

solitude is usual ,              even welcomed.

trips out reveal another state. the mind
and all travelling            excites, , i await
silence.

again.

he asked me a question, then i replied.

endlessly.                      it may be a gift?

ash escapes the brain

into    air.

days left,

three voices

rise, until just

one

is heard

**

on reading of orchids

have been meaning to tell  what a lovely book

you gave me

so while the mopped floors dry i am marooned with

the internet a while

a good grasping size, embossing feels good to touch

while one chapter at a time opens new ideas  and

brings fond memories of dorset country side

solitude

another time in life

thank you

the colour comes later, in the studio.
the land reclaimed, is bolder now,
energy splashes.


colour comes, from friends in conversation,
music and sounds, and i eat them
with hunger.

stains the cup if left standing,

remember the hotel, 1964,

we used to scour them especially

round the handle, then the base.

happy yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour.

is fading now
yet remains as the description

some of us most of us

tucked inside

becoming whiter

chattering

small white teeth

snakes figure a bit here since

i saw that one in the

famous old painting with a egg

in its mouth

you sent me seeds


it was your handwriting pleased me

your careful letter to advise patience

that most things happen in time


do you remember when i wrote to you

all in patterns and hints of a rhyme?


planted them five to a ***

some round the sides with one in the middle


then I finished the painting

my calculations say i may walk 4 miles
each time, each day, unless i go twice
then it is doubled of course

the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

glad i saw the old houses,
wintering, wood smoked,
perfumed. glad i smelled
the oak burning, turning

.raining.

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

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

the world outside the window commented on . as a child .
tell us things, take us without consent. there are no records

covering the plainess

i give them cardigans with buttons
and sometimes dots

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

the news has changed

here

while one I don’t know
who is friends with one I do
has been vaccinated

mid wales

she is a carer and they say it is bad there

a backwater

for some reason it has come so in wales
hence more restrictions

messaged to see if all are ok with this
of course , came the reply
and offered me random oats

having a liking for porridge of a morning
with cream and syrup I accepted

nicely

sometimes I have toast

and sometimes insert one comma

so far we have read the rules
in black and white
in print

meanwhile others translate them in different colours

i read your poetry in the rain

it had clipped the hand in error

left a moon shape mark

turned black

or maybe

is was dark blue with a little red added

lasted two weeks and still prominent

much has happened since the pinch

rain, mutations and slight headaches

the path is blocked off
due to mud and saturation

life goes on
the mark remains

it was remarked that there is no hurry
that we have the rest of the winter

happily with a little chocolate

liking rags
i move on
with differing
music

the trial by glass

he says people will carry on
the fight;

while
those on the streets suffered
even more this week

he said the flames

came over the trees.

behind the buildings.

bombed the buildings.

some things just stop us in wonder

here

with tears

unexpected

it seems there may be some connection

some call it a trigger

some things leave us cold and wondering what all the excitement

is about

unlike the thing in cairo yesterday


obviously I have no photographs

could be more overall

who is counting no more


it is not good grammar

no capital letters or punctuation


two days of storms

more in lockup


he says we get used to things

and I thinks he is correct

day 350

there are watermarks left, to be cleaned

in the spring.

the rain will come again.

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

it is a junction

the old railway track

the road to the farm there

tidy and organised

they saw me coming, waited and said hello

said they were coming so we waited to see

them come running the quad bike behind herding

all excited and we laughed to see

the calves run out into the field the first time ever

with their mothers

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

onward.

our work
our soul
is in
our chest

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

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

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

let us look at things, differently.

often, we do things, no one ever sees.

that is you and me. two of us
dancing in the dark. it came
and went,

quickly.

the island blessed

sandy tracks to wander

in memory.



like birds we flew

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

thinking of you and all the others that fly solo in these odd times under today’s cultural pressures.

we must fly higher.

some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.

this one remained bright,
even glaring

dry he wore the white dress
though
his hair curled damply

we drew him
we painted him

he is taller now & remains
much the same

the hair looks like a cockatoo
with no fancy phrases

they used orange a lot
with some yellow

combed it fancy mainly
upwards

sprayed all over for style
and protection

he went walking with her
held her hand and laughed

i watched from the bus stop
now colour challenged

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

you have been holding on a long time
hemmed in with printed lines


enhanced with ink

blobs


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

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

pink may be required

among the stone and lingering

youth

repeat

that

i don’t paint like you

or you

&

need to convince myself

broke

shattered

broken reflections

of a former life

smashed as it hit the floor

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

mild here with sun
shining on the lake and
hills beyond. we both
looked from the top deck
on the bus yesterday