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

in blue writing
as if
it is important
you see

maybe connections are missed the link dismissed. metaphors faint as my flimsy whispers symbols do you deny me peace?

perhaps you utter the words constantly? look closely

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

the sounds

softer.

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

comes well some days.

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

a storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled
awash a while
black things fade and all is grey

win or lose hedge your edge
write of parlay

his uncle grew golden rod
lived by the chapel, died a
few years ago

i thought him a quiet gentle man

rules come away. a differing

place,  turning in the year.

it came gently.

men will sing with three voices,
and dance in their suits,
and i will be headlost, and dizzy.

leaving the coat
to bathe in pools
of light, under green,
dripping back into
the coat , red coat.

** notes from the red coat, a prediction.

the air moves

on my skin.

i turn

look past the curtain

see the face again.


framed.

hiding did not work
for was caught up with
in the lane
asked to explain

talked randomly about slate fences
and temporary miniatures

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

there is news from the village

some is good and all there is tidy.

while some comes shocking and hard

to bear

james.

fighting the predictions

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…..

good that things come different
that all is not the same

all the time

i could write regarding monotony

then tell you the predicted of which came two

the usual board game and a mode of marriage

accepted some places
illegal the other

she implied she was married
and many assumed so

yet he never divorced
my mother

all things come differing

james

7°

the coffee affair with pods and seasons is recordable
into a small book, a journal of morning feelings while


i use a spoon for instant gratification . the modern
is much improved on the old ways

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

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

.oh.

in the dark

in the night

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

yet there are paths,

walked, not just

by one or two.

or rabbits.


have young feet run here,

or solitary folk, thinking,



watching light hit water

we look for sand.

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

sometimes dots

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

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

today, another power house installed,

i have to let some things go
now, yet this remains.

no one

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

the night.

we spin.

time is limited these days. those one admired in youth devastate us now.   can we know all things, we only went twice ?

robot is both

a wood block
some stickers

you know how it goes

then batteries are a thing
with their unexpected deletions

or should we mean depletion

i imagine is nice out cycling
with another

sharing experiences

you notice small things too
and record them slightly

those touches, nuances
do you see the way they
glance, look aside…

hope to revert to an earlier
idea of smudge and carbonate

james

you see
there is no control
only that we think we have
which is probably all imagined

the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

wore a bonnet
when very small

with matching coat and gaiters

she bought them from the shop on the corner

then the earache brought a wolly thing

that should be woollen

if one can spell right

i hated it and took it off


7.49

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

thankyou
we are all looking after ourselves
carefully here as you suggested

family, few friends too

as I hope you are too

there is a routine come natural
with walking peering
and poking with sticks

there is drawing as you know
and they come as magic for company

the red especially

thick and covering the plainess

i give them cardigans with buttons
and sometimes dots

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

washing in and out

then cotton bits ironed for i like the feel of it

you look after yourselves too

there is this little corner

tidy now

a niche

which needs a thing to make a point

for it


the storm came yesterday and tired from the work before

browsed the online and found many things

yet know that with time it will sort itself out


just as most places are tidy

the tree came down

and

next door’s shed blew about


it feels quieter this morning

handbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.

winter brings
blind mountain soaked,
peat bogged, sulking
in wet cyclists, heaven colour
of gold on grey again.

he clears the leaves each day
from formal lawn
looks up
as i look at him,
a glimpse
outside .

good is in the small things.
.
pat says.

painted my mug in happy yellow
drawn by the name not just the colour

and oh that name come true
on opening

jim

you like birds?

as do i

neither of us employed
&  i am vaguely idle

the poem read in steady voice
resounds. begs to share.

sending words out for pictures,
sending pictures out for words.

the voice reads on regardless.

a small thing remembered,
in mind, in music, the sharing.

the collaboration.

so i says to the bear when he woke,



hello,

i will be quiet today.



why, he replies.



my friend has died.



the bear says, then i shall be quiet too.

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

the clouds waiting as you
say

there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff

becomes fact
a place one can recognise

hope to revert to an earlier
idea of smudge and carbonate
james
you see
there is no control
only that we think we have
which is probably all imagined

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

make some thing of the scratches and nibs,

home in on detail

and begin

to enjoy

the cuts and scrapings.

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

yet used independently,
alongside honest work,
for mending.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.  

remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

she asked about side effects and though
after reading the instructions felt there

were none apart from the pigeons
noted before

when suddenly came the surge of energy
born from hatred of the overgrown

box hedge

we love the little national trust hedges
clipped and sturdy

not this high hanging woody affair

tried to trim the top
ended sawing the bottom
destroying the thing

a fit of peak they say

and having done so moved on to the other
larger affair by the gate

which rhymes with hate

you see

the joy next morning
when looking out
saw them gone

later the asda man came