at sea, it is a squall. i watched

a programme all about dream fish.

we need none.

we have dreamed a while, made a little

garden house, while mrs ciano is safe indooors.

cosy, she is by the old books

of course.

where else would she be,

still the rain pours, a draught

at the window.

sbm.

move, leave a trace, a gesture.

make a song about the things

that worry.

use your best voice to call

and care.

most things leave a mark, then

the next day we wash and clean.

even then something is missed.

the mark is made.

sbm.

it is not his tunnel, and he has

not googled it. the rest of us, mostly

google everything, to find a result.


she talks to me nicely, when i ask

her most things. astonished

when she does not know.


he will get it fixed in rochdale

i went there once

for sunday lunch

on monday.


never mind the predictions,

wait and see.


sbm.

(notes: - a bad hand refered to, when holding a sandwich.)

old pots are cheaper, chipped,

more attractive in an old place.

we shared them.

plants are more attractive, here

in this old place, run by the man

in the large house.

we shared them.

it was a lovely day, we shared it.

sbm.

it is a pleasant place, along the valley.

the hill stands proud as always,

green, blessed with blue bells.

park by the castle, walk through the station,

early.

meeting, small kisses, food with

friends.

conwy is in conwy.

sbm.

winding wool is mindless

she said, well maybe madam,

yet look at the lovely machine,

all red and cream plastic, that

winds in a way we cannot do

by hand.

look at my work which evolves

while working this and thinking.

i folded her goods tidily, packed in a

nice paper bag, said nothing

except mere politeness and niceties.

then got on with winding.

mindfully.

sbm.

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothng is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

sbm.

little red sailed
schooner, anchors late.

when i saw this word,
mast, for some obscure
reason, i imagined some one
tied to it, hair blowing
with the wind.

i must be tired
or delirious.

sbm

so tired that you could

fall gently onto soft grass

and sleep?

that nothing seems sensible any more,

no space exists around you?

will your legs still carry you along?

sometimes is best to stop a while,

think on the situations of others.

listen to the words of history, the stories

of others, then up from the lawn, to wonder.

sbm.

note –
wherewithal
ˈwɛːwɪðɔːl/

there are many numbers,

most are broken, a few retained.

i have 43. crushed the others

while walking.

heard the cuckoo call, louder and

louder, felt the sun, thought of africa,

from where they come.

there is a new path, around the lake,

by the power house. it may hum,

yet it is a gentle place.

we kicked about there all day.

sbm.