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

i thought him a quiet gentle man

the air moves

on my skin.

i turn

look past the curtain

see the face again.


framed.

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

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

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

you like birds?

as do i

neither of us employed
&  i am vaguely idle

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

talked randomly about slate fences
and temporary miniatures

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

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.

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

.oh.

in the dark

in the night

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

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

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

and oh that name come true
on opening

jim

the clouds waiting as you
say

there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff

becomes fact
a place one can recognise

handbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.

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

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.

the clouds waiting as you
say

there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff

becomes fact
a place one can recognise

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.

as he left the garden
he said they may be working nearer home now.

the sounds

softer.

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

comes well some days.

it is said i write abstract, in time to save

your feelings. you asked me to explain,

i did so lightly. the other said no one else

dare ask.



i tell you it is a full and complicated story

that may upset.





i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

metaphor and symbol.



was loathe to read it for i may cry.

you wish a pretty picture yet i cannot

make it.



i thank you for asking, where others

do not read.



the writing circled

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

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

little bits of paper

shredded

&

kept

until useful

sms

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

small thing  ragged who knows all of it

pieces torn away

or

is it a moth here in the dark?

triangles bring mystery

a new mathematics



the rooms were swept yesterday

bones hidden

teeth implied



yet the shape remains embedded

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

courage to walk away
from objects that irritate
our eyes, to eat another way,
with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean

or any day. do not wish to hide

do not wish to run

to take the boat and steer

to take the hiatus i fear


it crossed so many times

each time delivering

some time sinking

while we are shouting that

we do not wish to die


my son



wrote of it before

the last crossing

having paid the price we hope to be delivered

knowing that in depth we drown



the island blessed

sandy tracks to wander

in memory


like birds we flew


now it comes commercial

no crossing

stood steady in wonder

watched the dark bleed

across the sky

watch birds scatter

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

large rocks
fenced off yet
maybe i will
creep through
and touch
one quiet day

one stone
one finger touch
a ritual

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

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.

slower morning here today. the radio plays.

dove grey overcast sky. heavy they say.

maybe rain?

(or the timetable)

some places there is an order
of service
a timetable

it was cold in the night so we
all huddled in like it was a single
bed

when it is double

we make a nest
and warm up

i have a pet fly now

whose name is almond
so I call him marc
as an endearment

yesterday google said he
will live for 0.8 years
this morning she said two weeks

i have not seen him today
perhaps he is still to sleep?

the bear will cry out at 11pm……

sadly

can you fly from the window up into the hills where the trees are sawn down now

or maybe they used the machine

he was correct you know about the work along the estuary being drainage

the cut is ready
ditch is deep
mud banked

do you become tiny
walk there in mind

find the chosen pathways
watch the birds and wild
flowers grow

below the scene plays out
the dead
with wildlife as punctuation

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

there may be after effects
yet

nobody suggested a flock of pigeons

at 2pm that snowy afternoon

and that notes will be made

no one mentioned sleeping
later than usual

those chin tattoos
that come all beautiful
and trendy

noticed the birds several days ago
i do like the flocks even murmurations

which happen more mid wales
by the pier

you know
i haven’t been there in such a while

matt hancock

i have been staying at home now

11 months

in total

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

hesitate again
look down

regret my first sentence
now

maybe will say it some other time
now

i find
the memories are not as you may think.
i have new ones.

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

make some thing of the scratches and nibs,

home in on detail

and begin

to enjoy

the cuts and scrapings.

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

decide which
petulant shadow hides
integrity.

honesty abounds yet the flags
will find us.

becomes larger as time moves on.
it started early, with greek poetry,
the radio, which played all day.