do you remember i wrote
about the hawfinch, dead

at my gate? i have the skull
to wonder at the big beak.

such a big beak. a man
came yesterday, explained
yew berries, the outer shell
and kernel. none in the drive
today.

no berries left, these trees,
there are no hawfinch here,
today, sir.

yes, you may photograph.

this skull.

sbm.

see the softest looking clouds
wonder
if that is where that work came
from
and the joy of pink?


with gentle yellow

a pattern of letters, ideas, or associations which assists in remembering something so it does we do and test ourselves early



on a still day i

can smell it here

when the tide

comes up to

the bridge

remembering days



life was unclouded

and knowledge

was simple



sleep came easy



ran through paris

streets

in black and white.

no sub titles.



painted circles

the land

used all the paint

the natural light

and st david



watched the colour

make marks

watched the light

turn dark



now i wait the early sun,

to take a photograph



i should like you

to be happy

it looks like a new poetic form-lovely

and there unfinished

tacked and smocked

the littled dress

sewn quietly with love.

Sitting on the first bench stretched with keen attention,
Writing down the points went on and in,
As the church Bell struck two
I was made to stand and answer,
Lost in the depth of question
Blinking I stood wondering how I could solve
One or two started laughing loudly
And gigling in-between
Be littled I stood there staring at the question.

inspired forgetting
or repressed memories
push their palms to the front of my skull,
so deeply,
so urgently that dust coats their hands like a snowstorm
and i shake,
i q-q-quiver beneath the pressure
like old news tucked away in the corner of a closet,
and there's still room for one more problem,
one more echo,
one more brilliant mistake.

i am a wound with the depth of a mile long cave
and i say hello,
hello honey lovely,
to a hellion that never stays gone for too long.
it repeats in a torrent,
tugging at loose shingles
and drowning my cottages in distaste for my effort,
my attempt at normalcy,
at sanity,
and i am shamed,
i am littled into the dirt
where even dandelion seeds are bigger
and a single drop is a waterfall
and i am drowned,
swallowed,
beaten by it,
by him
and her
and them
and everything in the world
excepting my most sorry of selves
that is so bruised,
so cramped that breathing is a struggle
and there is no room,
no possibility of reprimand for myself.

mould is thick,
heady on my tongue
and i am buried,
tucked away beneath the weight of the world
and it is loud here,
louder than death has any right to be
and i am soothed by it
but joy is not permitted here
and his hands coil
and stretch
and shimmer
and c-c-clench against my piccolo pipes;
wheezing,
heaven is welcome--
no,
i am not made to die,
not lying down in the dark.

twenty-two years
and i have never felt the prickle of wings
but here beneath the dirt,
in the filthy dark,
they split from my skin
and envelope me in a canopy of blue;
the world is a thick,
ugly bruise
and i am dying to taste it,
to touch it with hands that do not shake,
that are not chained,
and i will not bear it a moment more,
i will not submit to ribbed hands
and broken vowels like some maimed child,
desperate for company
or love
or something more.

a moment escapes the dark
and i am free
but there is no flying,
there is no great escape into the wide sky like some released dove,
just a soft succession to the earth
with the wind on my face
and my hands in my own hands,
loosely held and prideful in their reality.

. red thread .



we did not know  the red thread of fate,              tied readily .

tied with inevitable red  or                       ****** rags again.

a meditation on thread, mediation of red,    i dream of you.

clearly your clothes remain the same, worn,           washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different.



be well in your mending, despite the pain,    raddled cotton .



pin  to hold life again.









The two people connected by the red thread are destined , regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmates or a destined flame.



(notes for Morrigan, May the first cabinet be locked, the second also, yet leaving the red key in, please?)

Room Two.



. Bound.



comfort bound in       clean                                                       linen.



arises with perfume,            an                            uncertain memory.



what else will you expect of me             . that, mis spellings or rags.



you see, i say it means nothing.   leather bound, broken, words lost



in boxes.





notes.



:: bound ::

    tied; in bonds: a bound prisoner.
    3.
    made fast as if by a band or bond: She is bound to her family.
    4.
    secured within a cover, as a book.
    5.
    under a legal or moral obligation: He is bound by the terms of the contract.
    6.
    destined; sure; certain: It is bound to happen.



Room Three.



.Crossing.



carefully you  drew crosses on my skin.   i looked at you ‘ kisses?’  no, you said,  crosses……



notes.



i have been asked about secrets, secrets, that I should not tell, and I tell you that I have been kissed truly kissed, and the tear tore my face, a water stripe, dipped in agony and love for you that must be a secret you said, you said, so I will write it here and print it, and print it, and dip it in wax, the kiss.i have been asked



Room Four.



. Stitching.



i have done this,      when all else are asleep,



stitching, thinking,         listening to the rain.





then  the voices                               stopped.



cover  the surface . that stitching can be

rhythmic,



and never mind the capitals. clever words

confound.

the littled dress sewn quietly with love.







we have  many more rooms  to describe…….

it is good to move things about
to stitch and make things
stitch and mend things

harder to thread the needle
daylight helps
by the door

when we gets distracted by
trees and birds
and suchlike
natural things

i like the stitch backwards
the stretching threads

the littled dress

she is older now