before the cut were shadows

which

needed to be removed.

a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,only just a theory,


yet used independently,
alongside honest work,
for mending.

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

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.          count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely,        moves us

onward.

corona

a slightly better sounding word
than covid

and more readily in predicted

lift the cotton, look again.

cover the place with whiteness.

pink is pretty, white is clean.

they do not want to see it

today, a reminder of fragility.

tell us things, take us without consent. there are no records

the sea is quiet as we have never seen it

sun as hot as it gets

like summer

they gloried in it

it will pool, deep and dark,

still, inviting.

deep waters to sooth pain,

there have been a couple
of incidents but now she

is in disguise
with different
hair

we now descend into darkness,
drawn into night,

mistakes crossed, all can see
the errors ,the blots,that soak
the skin, the stain within.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

yet when
she said my friend looked pretty
&
that I smelled nice
I sagged a little.

later that day
i found a message
request
from a soldier in the usa
holding a puppy & a rose
calling me a beauty

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

my heart is in my chest

a particular siding

i feel it sometimes

when i am walking hard or eating chilli

so i avoid that last thing

mostly

pink i expect with tubes

mostly like in the pig’s hearts

mum used to buy from the butchers

for dinner

now i am vegetarian


i think that if i have a soul

it may be behind the heart

hiding

and maybe that is where my work

comes from

it seems odd that at times of rest and when all is quiet around

that i cannot hear it

nor the other workings

like lungs and veins and stomach

oh!


except the latter rumbles

no one
is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of
the night.

we spin.

tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.

i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.

drawing the child with found fabrics

watching the marks come good, no dots
intended
yet they came
without warning

life goes on
the mark remains

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

quiet slow and uneventful

it left lasting impressions

a simple drawing out

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

feels necessary to hold onto memories
and to repeat myself

duck egg blue
the ironmongers in town
at three seventy nine

we can walk there and back or there
and bus back you see

covered in wool against the cold.  bales taken down river , down to the harbour down

to the cob.

on boats .

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

some doubt climate change
despite the science
she says we shall have sunny spells

no bus arrived the timetable lady was contacted and she explained the bus was due at 2.30 pm that my internet were wrong and no one was bothered what it said at bus stops

this time of morning i eat a bun maybe
or croissant which is french

drink coffee
watch the news

that seems to be mostly sport
so i idly look up  while writing

my blog

i have tried watching tennis
i like the clothes and think
of friends who enjoy it

there are no real spectators
due to the sick

then

sometimes i see the film reviews
with the nice presenter

i like him
I like films

i sip my coffee

splits into fragments, pieces

that don’t fit

it is all a puzzle

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

come morning early rather than dark


fish that are insects on the pantry shelf


the necklace chosen each year

a gift

treasured


the memory of travel come fleeting while writing

at least we did that.


hair now…..

rules come away. a differing

place,  turning in the year.

it came gently.

dusk


the road up over comes quiet

sheep stand in groups watching

cattle in a neighbouring field

moved higher due to predicted flooding


it is autumn now proper


some of us most of us

tucked inside

becoming paler


chattering

small white teeth

sat at the stones

by the water

the white one cracked open and I shall keep it as memory

of

how we prepare for fall

have you been to the wild wood?

not the one down the lane here
that is private and inaccessible

now

the one down the road by the estuary
is all mossy and twisty paths

which requires a lot of watching the step
and with that comes the discovery of

certain twigs of the right colour and design

during lockup we only saw ours
now come many varieties
to enjoy and at a later day

gather

for now we learn the paths
watch the ways of the wood

while opposite

the wood
men

balance carefully
in orange vehicles

gathering

will watch the film on perception tomorrow alongside
another. red & white.  they say it will change my life.

meanwhile i **** boxes.

no one

is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of

the night.

we spin.

when sprayed
with cosmetic fixative
glow pink

the air moves

on my skin.

i turn

look past the curtain

see the face again.


framed.

doubly,
font and image.
to twice the normal extent
or degree.
things happen, we deal,
cards are set, dice thrown.
life moves on.

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

black crow bird

pecks kitchen towel.

nest lining.

there came a faint whistle.

they looked the other way..

having chatted to an other
about seeing  stuff that
becomes personal when

alone

reminding him is not odd
at all

endearingly different
to the hub

and we love those
that fly solo
these days

the difference is a thing

is fine here too this morning
a pinkish tinge with fluffy clouds

only I guess they ain’t fluff when you get up there
and no angels with harps sitting

for they would fall through
and fly or splat down

is like stars have no points really
is all a drawn out myth

mistake

the nicest thing about lighter evenings
is that I can lie in bed and see the big
old planes fly down the estuary and if
lucky

back inland again

the clouds waiting as you
say

there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff

becomes fact
a place one can recognise

I read the judgement just now and while ironing the cotton handkies consider my confession.

Some time back now I was in residence at Plas Newydd in Llangollen and read the lady’s diaries with an apostrophe.

They wrote their daily menus and so my entry included some of the found ideas. Yes, folk really ate that….and fish with liver sauces….

Thankyou for your pleasant comments. I have such sweaters. My two most comfy are….

The grey shapeless mohair over 50 years old bought second hand and other Nordic thing both warm and come gender fluid.

With capitals today.

handbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.

the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life