these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm

talk of concrete in pretoria
thoughts on moths in wales.

there is only air between .

talk goes on all day, about the heat,
the rain and drizzle,
no thoughts on the shipping
forecast. words red, remembered.

the bird, the boy, the machine,
there is only air between.

seems there may be some connection

some call it a trigger

some things leave us cold and wondering

seems there may be some connection
some call it a trigger
some things leave us cold and wondering

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

some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.
this one remained bright,
even glaring

driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,

blind man’s buff.

wherein the word buff is use
d in its older sense of a small
push.

the game later also became known
as “blind man’s bluff”; it is possible
that this name is a linguistic corruption.

again.

it,

blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.

phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw

nothing.

water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.

things that can be mended.

he said that most people throw broken plates away.

thank you.

wrote a continental seven automatically

as always

then afterwards wondered if it may

be mistaken for a four.



things turned out fine

and the next day

did not get blown off the bridge.



high winds.

from yesterday, the conversation and your enquiry


the remembrance is that it was mainly brown and beige when we moved in


distemper


cold and metal windows

condensation caused black

damp

plus steam from the kitchen


colour crept in gradually despite protestations


yet we shall not talk of it further

there are no photographs


we had no impetuous to record

yet it seems we remember

spoke to others yesterday about
banning the word coping as a negative
thing, said with sympathy
head to one side.

it feels a frail word and does not apply

corona

a slightly better sounding word
than covid

and more readily in predicted

now your name may be redeemed
your wanderings freed into new

adventures

or maybe you will still stay inside a while

inside the boundary lines

four fields

corona

yet it was taken all serious with a need to always be correct

to talk about quality

black crow bird
pecks road ****.

pheasant.

haute cuisine.

crow bird,
pecks package.

hoping for a sandwich.

b.l.t.

Good morning.

All nice here. Excellent morning yesterday in Corwen and although the Vintage Emporium was unexpectedly closed due to a power outage a nice time was enjoyed.

Poked about town and looked at the Coy carp in their shop and the old run down hotel is now community owned and has a pop up shop.

Went to the Welsh cafe for coffee, which is as hot as lava, a local told me.

No cooked meat available this Saturday in the butchers though the conversations  there are always good.

it was at the bus stop where the buses converge

transfer the passengers

where everyone talks though

not about that, nothing like that.

she came from dolgellau, said hello and talked about all those things, no fuss, just honestly ,

on the way to berlin.

i don’t use a teapot
but evidently many do,
and cosy up together.

they don’t squish teabags, have leaves,
and stewing on the gas ring,
like mother, reducing it to
poison on my tongue.

i like the leaves to look at,
smell, like the small packet
we used to have, paper lined
in those days.

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

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

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

you know what i mean

cover the place with whiteness.
pink is pretty, white is clean.

they do not want to see it
today, a reminder of fragility.

eight thirty  till five.   it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind   meaning wasting time with wires and connections.

cover the surface.   it takes time.

time stops in winter

here.



we find it manageably quiet.



today we drives to conwy busy

with people making holidays

is lovely.



yet i cannot find it easy.



i buys the trousers i have wanted for such a long time

from the pound rail.



look at cakes as is my hobby.



talk about angels and return home.



quiet.

apart from the men laying  tarmacadam opposite.



it smells nice as does the creosote from yesterday.



while the music plays softly.

understand the difficulties

understand the fear


it needs to have activity

it needs to have depth


yet there is no need for admiration

no need for folk to like it

and we worry when they do

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend

sometimes
as I sure many do
i stand and watch

the leaves come gentle down
no sound

and with luck and twilight

the bats arc out

geometric flight

tell no one

all is protected and rightly so

we are creatures of the night
one way or other

up the road by the foxes crossing
lights
protect them from the road

low light
i have that here

deep windows
enough to see

gently

for me gently works best these days

it is a junction

the old railway track

the road to the farm there

tidy and organised

they saw me coming, waited and said hello

said they were coming so we waited to see

them come running the quad bike behind herding

all excited and we laughed to see

the calves run out into the field the first time ever

with their mothers

now your name may be redeemed
your wanderings freed into new

adventures

or maybe you will still stay inside a while

inside the boundary lines

four fields

corona

you would love it she said,

no dressing up required, nothing fancy.


then showed me photos  of the mandatory

gala evening

all wearing glittery stuff

bought on vinted.


am not fancy, me.

your words come different, while

with your question come forth

sense of

another world

metaphors, inuendos

a door into an other world

breaking cups    spilling tea will abuse the hospitality

please come. i have the kettle on.    this is not the time

for hostility

“Hurry burry refers to a busy, boisterous activity. Surprisingly this English term was borrowed & derived from a Tamil word – Arakka parakka (அரக்க பறக்க ). To move or do things more quickly than normal is termed as Parapara (பரபர) in Tamil”

..curry..

so we takes our time these days
wash hands carefully

pinafore and radio on

dancing

think of our mum as we chop the onions
how she added curry powder and sultanas
to the baked beans
as a savoury

a nod to another culture
she never knew.

a nod to the war rationing still in place

slowly add in more ingredients while
whirling gracefully in the boots that

have become more appropriate
now

now
we wait a while and let it rest

there is no hurry any more
there never was

then later eat it slowly

no hurry burry curry

did not draw yesterday. my mind did not wander in that world of marks of manifestations

i stayed up the house while the storm was outside with another name and watched a while

when it became too much and notices of fallen trees were all around I drew the curtain against the sky ; admired the fabric

that was the only thing I drew yesterday

i tidied a cupboard already done and thought about your birthday

packed all your gifts ready yet I did not draw anything properly yesterday

concentrate, all comes into focus,
floating.

these are the warmer days, days of independance.

days to charm

cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

I will take you to the slate.
Blaenau Ffestiniog,
Tanygrisiau,
Cwm Orthin lost and gone.
It lays all around, littered
sliding, sparkling with rain.

grey and ugly they say
but have they sat a while,
storage heaters and thrones,
they are, the slates
perfumed moss and earth.

we will wander up the rise
where mothers push the buggies,
and boys off road from Croesor
mud and slate chips, scattering
splattering.

we may pass the lake
where the sheep bathe
and we shall bathe too
pooled in water
slated, lilied, green

i shall walk you
to the fences, slate fences,
drawn with names
from the past, graffiti
men’s names, welsh names,
proud.

we shall sit by the chapel
listening for the voices
murmuring, singing
welsh voices,
and we will join in the song
with our hearts

let us visit the old homes,
scattered stone, and windows blind,
wind hunting hair to lift,
doors to rattle,
all gone, all gone
down to the valley,
and away.

time stands still
and i will watch you.
take photographs

they have gone now, we rise, heavy.
air comes clean and you accompany me.
it is a pretty place, with rain we become wet…

from the windows saw,

the softest steam morning

on the mountain.

the promise of another

day in wonderland.

painted my face again

like i powdered yours,

coty alabaster.



made you white

and sickly.



sweety child.



i took the face again,

painted it white

and full

with the ghost of a tear.

a drop that welled

red

and fell.

let us look at things, differently.

often, we do things, no one ever sees.
that is you and me. two of us
dancing on the sand.

it came
and went,
quickly.

he stood like a dancer,
arms out.

he looked
and moved,
like a dancer.

early for some, late for others, we came. different reasons.

danzÓn.

they  do not know the darkness

how the light can fade into latin

& all things unreasonable

the back road was
littered, rather blustery.

today
we have a darker day

here we need no black days
no more, not in this house

seen too many troubles….

a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

small thing ragged who knows all of it pieces torn away

work along the coast with thread and diligence

gather wools layer carefully

we shall have warmth this winter

wind blows around our houses

water seeps

yes i imagined it well

after trekking those miles
on return empty the machine
to fold the washing before the drying

sheets entail my arms aching
still recovering from all the moving
while walking

shall think of you
at work swinging
to jazz music

the laundry closed here on lockdown
temporarily
have not heard since
so maybe it was
permanently

inadvertently i squashed a woodhouse
today

now i beg forgiveness

we are little things

that dance in the mornings

james

by the light of the phone….