and glory here, though
not a good way to start
a sentence. they say there
is a frost today, though i
cannot see it yet.

i could not see the signs
until standing back, the
pattern formed. it is

the first movement
of winter, though
not officially, yet.

i saw the wooden boulder again
yesterday. it has not moved,

yet.

all are talking of numbers
constantly. three years that, 5 tears this,
no music plays on this computer now.

it plays in rooms, where darkness lingers,
where cloths are folded neatly, ready
to store, to air , mend, abide until required.

each day has a number, each a task.
i have drawn seven chairs, need to
do thirty three more,. this is a project.

thirteen, fourteen, fifteen

while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we drove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

when the first line is the title,
when the content is unknown
morning in darkness as if the
sun can’t rise again.

the bulb popped and now we
have a lower light. we have an
understanding, we asked for
explaination. it came via another
route.

i live by the A470.

with reason, the thing was googled
yesterday,
now there is an understanding.
the code, the season of it all.

it fits, the picture is made, the
pieces may be in place.
left on the tray,
photographed for all to see,
labelled, quarrelled intensely.

maybe, quietly, put back,
in the box.

the hill is a mountain, this time.

crimea pass,the road to llanrwst.

as we drove, i thought, i would
be happy if i lived in such a place.

i do, and so i am.

knew he was coming near. said hello.

we stood together quiet, he turned.

i went to the bridge as always,
down along the river
bank
and back.

he had waited at the gate.
i looked at his legs so long,
held her up to see.

they seemed to like each other too.

we all stood quietly together.

up the road the bus burned black.