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

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,

she asked why but i could not explain really. so

i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do

not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

is the little things that excite, even
in the height of summer, low look
for seeds, small flowers studded
in hedgerows,

best to be gentle with those and all other things…

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low

over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.

all is dust, as dust we have become.

no sighs.

they have forgotten us.        we have forgotten them.

are we  now the bones of what we were?

a world of extremes

or maybe the contradictions

were dreamed

have been looking,
for my breaking heart,
boxed
for anniversaries,
and having a good day.

i find a note that says
i am a magician,
and how.

comes a differing hue

with duck egg blue

the ironmongers in town

at one seventy nine

it was boiling water them days

plates and cutlery dipped

hands minded in industrial gloves

pink rubber

scalding dishcloths and sinks

down on knees blindly scrubbing floors

through insults and watery fears

we are a team , shouted regularly

while we took the comments seriously cowed with blisters from cold water on the other hand

a world of extremes

or maybe the contradictions

were dreamed

do not know everything
only my version

a fraction of the whole
blue sky thinking
here

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

i find this true to a point when all is comfy


was used to the other colour once

i used to go to oxford

get off the coach outside the museum

and go in

spend some time there

then go round town a while before

going back

could have stayed in there all day

yet is good to get out in the air

after so long on the bus

it stops there for some hours on the way home from london

where I saw tutankhamun and some miserables not at the same time though

now we can go nowhere really except 5 miles local

did that monday and the car broke down

now i can’t go nowhere again

i miss oxford and visiting museums

tangled affair
too many people talking at once

it is a messy affair
paint smudges and runs

eventually all comes clear
one having the final say

predictions come and go

black crow bird
pecks road ****.

pheasant.

haute cuisine.

he seemed surprised yesterday that i had completed the task


to ensure the proportions looked right for me


it is part of the job and if it is diaried must be done ticked off when finished

 
the sham crow bird was rearranged for it was too high  to look good


later in the studio the work that had continued the same so long made a change
with a sigh of relief 


thankyou

wanting to be noticed?

looking for a friend then

wear your interest where it can be seen easily and maybe smile

meanwhile

as predicted

some don’t care….

there is no reaching the summit here
the story changed

an avalanche of news
and wet weather

dampened the spirit
so we nipped out between the storms

to post the letters
and that was all

speak those words, templar, that i cannot say.

another time, another place

leaves are turning slowly daily

except at the turning
maentwrog

they go first always
and suddenly

this time of year

the word came involuntarily,
others were stuck, yet i knew
them to be beautiful, and
so they are.

powers and dominions,
virtues

she said she liked the stories

except I did not tell them

i never tell you much

nor all of it

there are bits left to fill in

yourselves

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.

today is apricot

a new jar opened easily


my mum would buy a large tin and decant

there were five of us, one had left earlier


seems trivial to write of preserves during pandemic

yet it is a treat this morning with a croissant in bed

cosy


we have all sorts in the pantry with little gingham caps

held on with rubber bands

i have a pack somewhere in a rainbow of colours

yet often use those dropped by the postman

wide in brown


also have sandwich spread

more as savoury

alongside asda’s own marmite

such a treat yet not for breakfast


nearly a year now

have stopped waving

and carry on

in contentment

sometimes
a while in a box
will do nicely…

stuck in  ice forewarned
by terms of reading

arctic exploration

like to be quiet,speaking
only
when you asked the question.

not sure why i came.
i think you invited me?

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

or over there

find it challenging

and disappear

now i beg forgiveness
we are little things
that dance in the mornings
james

in the light from the phone

it may be a habit writing
here
each day

hearing your news

or maybe an act of solidarity james

decide which

petulant shadow hides

integrity.

honesty abounds yet the flags

will find us.

while wondering

find there are possibly two
of us

me
and the one i was pretending
to be

the thread does not show here
nor the subject matter

and it is missed

am presently writing my reply
whilst composing a letter in my head

which will change my life

james

slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

my goodness

such a thing to see while out
and about

such a high up place to be

shall we rescue the drowning where we can ;
record the names?

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable

no one does nothing

substantial

even after all this time .

watching all the crime.

the list is long  & unbelievable,

then longer and extra unbelievable.

each day.

yet no one seems to do anything.

i says this out loud to mine &  can do nothing

substantial.

only shaking.

we are little things

that dance in the mornings

james

by the light of the phone….

nice to see you here

i see it was yesterday though I mainly check by in the morning
early

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

or over there

find it challenging

and disappear

was gone some time

past tense can be horribly traumatic

lady on the bus told me her sister kept lots of soap and what did I think.

I says she sounds like me.

having learned , the days  will come longer soon. the sounds

softer.

once the day is dawn, the door is open, face the sky, all

comes well some days.

some days it does not, yet it still comes light. the falling

days end.

have you walked the dunes

hollowed path, coconut gorse.

have you found contentment there?

we have new bird boxes up
ready for the spring
meanwhile autumn comes gentle

one breath of leaves across the way

it is a tiny garden out back
overlooking the grave yard

where the men mowed the grass
stopping a while
leaning on rakes

watching the weather

seems we gets busy here and there
yet cannot verbally explain why we write
and paint

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

i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes   dream
in bed, often in yellow.

or blue which

covers the

land in places, my eyes           smarting.

along the edge, the edge
of season. the coast with
slow limits.

the glass anomaly
swept the edges
golden, in proportion.

liking the format, liking the days
that come natural now without
no planning

evolving gradually