the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium  acrylic.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work, for mending.

today is hallow e’en

sbm

lay dead . do not speak nor ask for   fear.

lay quiet. do not write nor tell. there    are

new shoes by the wardrobe.     at an angle.

still. do not move nor participate in  any

way.

do not breathe, nor cry. there are    new

shoes by the wardrobe,            new shoes.



sbm.

he thought of moving it
out of sight.

disagreed, like to see it there
now, remembering.

see the reflection in the light
of my torch after dark.

the shape leaned against
the wall, the space in the shed
where it used to be.

we tried to give it away, no one
wanted it.

it has been a while.

sbm.

all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.

cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.

shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.

wipe your nose clean.

sbm.

today we have added notes for your interest.

A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.

The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.

Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.

not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.

thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.

save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.

the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.

sbm.

*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing

1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.

tucked in, nice curtains
frame the photograph

while i google syntax
and superlative,

conjunctions, filling.

forgot the dentist appointment,
another dark mark on the horizon.

lead soldiers may cause lead poisoning,
the line come longers, the family taller.

yes, it was a lovely day, pat.

sbm.

come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.

now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.

we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.

she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.

a day of rearrangement.

as you were.

sbm

they say that manners maketh man,

yet boys in pyjamas

use them to be polite , asking for quality

behaviour. smiling slightly

converse in lowered tones.





nijinski.

©sbm

new numbers came
suddenly, soon
after one.

nothing added any more,
all began to subtract,
divide, the result
algebraic

there are no rulers,
lines to divide,
the total is irrelevant
now, the
addition foremost.

i have been to the counting.

sbm.

there are no pins,
no easy way to fix
some things.

this time, we wait
to see the outcome.

mended plates aren’t funny,
scaffold a life.

don’t laugh, it may
happen to you.

listen, repeat the
random insects.

stitch another way.

sbm.

i suggested mending when you asked about weaving.
yet what goes round comes round. i find myself weaving,
at the mill.

how apt.

was i weaving on pegs, the stuff of dreams,
addictive wool gathering storms and whether,
or not, we should make and mend. the old way

Johann Botha.

sbm.

have you seen a drawing,
bold, that hits your heart,

licks and smudges
make the picture
of a man.

yet look sideways, it may
be you, or her, each day

there is something different
in the mirror.

each way, drawing you in.

it is framed. as are you now.
there is no photograph.


sbm.

needing refreshment in oswestry,

later rather than sooner,

crept up the chalk painted

staircase, seems to work

well, in this case.

i note the dstressed nature

of the furniture.

this place.

having regular coffee,

a fruit scone will

certainly do,

i listen to the server, who

clasping the china teapot,

tells us revelations

of those who live, who divorce

and warm the ***.

i have to say that

the scone was lovely.

later i bought a potting bench.

sbm.

of course you will, some times.


why not, we cannot think of everything all the time.


it is a little flower, shallow rooted,

that spreads lovely. have planted some in pots,

while down the path, will add a touch of blue.


sometimes we just stand and look.


sbm.

it had to be ants.



the town turned out,

a pound a time,

to see the model railway

of dolgellau.



amazing as it was,

as you know i do like tiny things,

expecially trains.



more astonishing was the conversation,

face close, on ants that bit up his legs

at bingo, formic acid and calamine

explained in detail.



thre train went by, with tiny noise,

as he rolled up his trouser leg to show me.



the explaination as detailed

as the dioramal, on and on and on.



a nice man.   my daughter saved me.







twice.



it was a good turnout, an excellent,

award winning model railway.

sbm.

always been a plain one,
no frills, tidy packaging.

went to liverpool, slowly,
rather slowly to be safe.

on arrival found art to
be inspired, enquired
about restrictions there,
the mirrors square.

on arrival found bling.wore bling.

on returning home ate liver. #apt.

sbm.

make complications, rebuke.

electronic mailings
back, forth, fourth
again. it is their responsibility,
arrangment, role, assigned post.

it is so very important, so difficult.

phoned the other one, he just
said yes.

job done.

sbm.

been pecking the pole since the forties

we think,

how delightful.



yet it must be changed and moved

in case it falls down, what would we

do then?  he asked.



i decided not to think about that, and

rejoice in the creosote

of the new thing.



may be the woodpecker will

too?



sbm.

are suggested quickly, no time taken to

utter the words. yet. it will take a while

to order, to plant, it will all be lovely,

unless bitter words entice despondency,

low spirits from a loss of hope, of courage.

we shall carry on until the paint runs out,

then we shall clean the old rugs., order two hundred

bluebells.

he often has good ideas.

sbm.

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.





the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.



the memory remains.



snowdrop’s  green

appears.



this is not bethlehem.

sbm.

do you like the feeling,
walking ahead quickly,
moving forward, loosening limbs.

pushing through wind,
through water, rain slanting.

shouting, counting the rams,
shadowing shepherd. wee

mouse on the path, beady
eyed. these are the hopeful days,
weak sun aching to shine.

these are the days, the marches.

after

idly chat to neighbours, to fetch
the dog, to dawdle, to wind
slowly down.

the snowdrops are out.

sbm.

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.

tides are higher now,

flooding the paths.


he walked the mud,

bringing the footsteps back to us.


we mop the floors, when the rain stops.


if you leave the boots to dry,

the earth will knock off, neatly.


there was a partial eclipse, the tides are high.

he was a gardener.

sbm.

he was a gardener. sbm.

it is an traditional
afghan dress
look at the bodice.

encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.

i can visit, touch
and take photographs.

the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
stop me

liking.

sbm.

there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.

water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.

lately we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.

sbm.

another day of vinegar soaked

words.

another play on keys, as we drift

through winter days.



curtains dragged across the gloom,

early, yet while light lingers later,



we wander to the snowdrop drift, hear

the last bird call.



hear the dog at pentre farm, barking.



later hear the water fall from

broken drain pipes.



soon it is february, lighter

nights.



sbm.

it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.

a long time.

they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.

one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .

we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.

it is empty a long time.

sbm.

I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

white, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love, so vehemently.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

sbm.

we talked of god and the making.

the set was described, security lights
threw trees into shape and number, signs
that most things have a joy. there were
two hearts,

a space between.

it may be raining today.

sbm

while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.

caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,

thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.

concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.

earth and heaven.

sbm.

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.

the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.

the memory remains.

snowdrop’s  green

appears.

this is not bethlehem.

sbm.

as a child i liked cottage pie
for dinner, we had at lunch time.

i had one best coat, and maybe
a raincoat, gabardine mac. in
summer white plastic mac from
woolworths.

i hear that many ladies have lots
of coats these days,indeed i know
that.

yesterday i ate cottage pie at
lunch time, then bought half
a coat.

sbm.

i have cake here, tony made it me,

last year he made a wooden glove box, as my red x one overflowed, the year before a tiny clothes hanger.

only yesterday i hung the knitted clothes i bought in pickering, no room for the pants, i pinned them to the wall. he is brenda’s husband.

she likes victoria sponge,

too.

sbm.

with ann.

side table holds the milk,
sugar, napkins, all agreed.
it is cyan.

his portriat is cyan,
cut carefully, a little younger,
dylan.

little garden, summers day,
her plant is mullein.

sandwiches and prunes
after aberystwyth school of art.

a splendid day, a very splendid cabinet.

sbm.

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

the radio is old, retro,
gift for a birthday,
arrived late we did not say,
not
wishing to upset.

headlights flash, sheep
on the road,
the pheasant run, a pleasant
run, minding squirrels, other odd
furry things on the road.

hurt no living thing.

it rained all day, new
dress on the line, still wet.

sbm.

evokes memory.

hung on  a chair,
plush velvet, sheen and colour,
plum with lace.

sparkling neckline.

the scarf, subdued blue hangs
over. i kept looking

at the contrast while
they talked.

there is another dress
i have drawn.

not photographed.

sbm.

is carpeted with snowdrops.

did you see them at 60mph,
overtaking. did you slow later
to see the next drift. did you reach
your destination safely.

did you stop for coffee there,
have a chat, look at the meat
and biscuits.

did you see the rainbow that
spanned the empty house.

did you ever wonder,
what happened next?

it is a small life, treat
it gently.

sbm,

not knowing some answers, nor
understanding questions, battle on.

not knowing the rules of engagement,
on flooded roads, drive on, even

knowing the reasons why, does
not always change the equation,

or is it geometry. never got the
hang of logarithm tables, nor

slide rules. so we studied the use
of newspaper in cleaning windows,
in evading mothth a while, for
fuming dustbins,

before they came plastic.

she is younger than me, yet we
could write reams.

about linoleum.

sbm.

the robin came down as he cleared the ground,
all red chest, pretty eyes.

we discussed the earth, rich now, without
the stones. we could grow potatoes as they
did here in the war. i have the photograph.

these are fortunate times, while have disliked
the tuber since the flu struck.

there has been a lot of it this year here.

we plan a pretty little greenhouse, all white
with embellishments, red geraniums.

the robin watched, i am told he will like mealworms.

sbm.

grandma came from malta, or was it

gibraltar, anyhow dad was very dark.



his hair remained so, with help and support.



i came from england to live here with you



#thebear.



also from another country.



i hear there is trouble in the village.



yes. i am scared they will shout

and say go home.



another country.



sbm.

the end bits grey, steeped in butter,
seems the cat likes that, greedy

thing, eats all i give and more besides.

we are replacing lost notes and buttons,
cutting, stitching carefully as spoken about
yesterday.

he says it is a strange shape and form
with emphasis, he may be right. the cat

continues to eat.

sbm

i often wonder if i              should recognise you

in passing,                            or are you gone now?



should i remember your name & your brothers.



would i laugh at the experience,      as happened

yesterday.



he walked straight past me without       blinking.



i guess i am plain now, without no fancy hair style.



blinking.



sweet heart.



sbm.



daily post



sbm.