there is nothing quite like changing stuff,
you see he always came on tuesday, but then
we started writing that day, so he will come
on thursday each month.

is a simple thing,
to think sideways,
practice makes a hindrance
when others think straight.

slate slides
mud slips
rain falls

seems higher this time
water expands to where i see
the edge

this is a little model.

it may be full of
metaphor.

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

is a pretty thing especially today with the backdrop being darker

we wonder how it will map
out

we have wondered before
when waking to a misted world

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

sea swim
is saturdays at ten in the morning,


sundays later at eleven.


this too remembered in the bathroom.
we use the pool, mainly.

down the centre of town
an avenue in fall

and the day came divine

it has been warm
and sunshine here a few
days now

so much work achieved
outside
like

painting the studio
the wooden walls
outside

then preservation
on the summerhouse
and tidying that garden
round the back

this morning my hands feel rough

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

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

days left,

three voices

rise, until just one is heard

there is always something
which is often nothing

to worry about

stressing over imagined happenings
which don’t  occur

she came worried about monkey pox
so made her ordinary  tea

the next day I travelled  up
walked the streets and saw

the stories there
for a change

the voices rise

softer.

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

comes well some days.

going quiet sometimes, not knowing why.

being smaller with the year almost gone.

marvelling at the looseness of the rediscovered vest

forget the leg moisturiser,

therefore fail as a modern being.

we shall have more drawings
i can see the marks & lines
pushing through
despite the weather

moving on i feel it was a flashback
to the girl who wished for quiet and
can remember  in detail

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

talked randomly about slate fences
and temporary miniatures

slipped sideways.

while all remains the same, something is different.

do not wish to hide

do not wish to run

to take the boat and steer

to take the hiatus i fear

some of us most of us
tucked inside
becoming whiter
chattering
small white teeth

asked why i wanted it
i said that i did not know

he had a box in the room
to stand on
to see

we may all need one of those

varying kinds

and ages

it dries and cracks if not stored with care.

biscuit tins are useful

life goes on
the mark remains

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

we were friends’

more than that with promises that faded into silence.

i woke this morning the same

feel for the beautiful moments
that pass & not recorded here

wild here this morning
wind in the chimney
rain on the glass

and talking of that
little lamp blew down outside


broke

never mind

sleep was rattled by weather
thoughts of war too hard to write

yet one day i will

i guess you know more than me

i don’t know what a tent shelter is

but I can imagine

so far few plans for a day unless it clears

james

told him when he asked about dinner
with his sister


we laughed and the wind blew things
away

you notice small things too
and record them slightly

those touches, nuances

do you see the way they
glance, look aside

little bits of paper

shredded

&

kept

until useful

sms

your time will come

i will wait politely here until the time
and hope predicted don’t change
nothing

no more

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

when the painting was finished

the green house door fell off

so laughing we propped it on the chair inside

a donation

he suggested white nasturtiums quieter than the hot colours

i have ordered some via cashback

to come by post like the chocolate egg yesterday

or was that a trick?

once he suggested one hundred blue bells

they are growing too

i thinks of these things while watching monty don this morning

with coffee early

rain comes here in waves
reflecting feelings

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

do not know everything
only my version
a fraction of the whole
blue sky thinking
here

said old people fold notes
&
i felt insulted.

she said it bothered her a lot
when she counted them.

we should keep them flat
&
others may agree

fear of falling,
breaking,
and losing
the soft words
of my life

some are wizards


some come predicted


while in bristol working

she asked the relationship because he liked

stuff of mine


on reflection see that she noted these things a lot

where

others would not have noticed


then a decision was made

by one party agreement by the other


parted


frying potatoes  for tea

skins gone crispy


clean the cooker  top


some draw

while others draw out


tick eater

best to be gentle with those and all other things…

"Is art a box that you climb into?”

“Well, yes, I guess it is. I never thought of it like that”

“Are you compartmentalizing?”

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue

the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine

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

thankyou for the prompt, the questions.

some times there is no answer, no words to describe.

yesterday i went alone to hold those feelings private

there was joy in the small things

chips from the shop the first for two years

ate in the sun under the particular trees

the absence of red soap and the joy of seeing the garden again, the galvanised cold frames

and wondering why only eight of her children were carved in the church recess when she bore ten

yet I tell you this

it were a lovely day with new surprises

and confirmation that I never wish to win

nothing

light came, we saw the green ness of it all.                          we live in the country.

the sounds

softer.

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

comes well some days.

dark small cloud dropped rain.
still, the small birds sing

when sprayed
with cosmetic fixative
glow pink

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