this critic is awkward,

sees the good, feels the grace.


how to say it, that the

mind wanders, that filth

detracts from the everyday.


that stitching can be rhythmic, and

never mind the capitals.


clever words confound,

googling interupts the flow

whilst dots are alaways

useful.


i have never done this before.

sbm.

oh absalom, my son, my son.

cry out,  travel miles to

worship,  purify.



pray for him, the note

says all is disorder.



travel miles to tell those who

cannot hear, nor listen.



yet. if you cannot believe all

that is told, find a place your

own.



never mind the ancestors, absalom

my son.



sbm.

is crosses. we used to think xisses.

stab the needle .                  threaded.



stitch the cross, tie at the back three

times.                                                 cut.



start again.                 cover the surface.



it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven.   full days of

stitching.



xisses.                                                 crosses.



sbm.

that is the welsh spelling, guess the english

is hughes shop, where they have many items

of use, substance, for some an entertainment.

various style pins, in various size boxes, folded

cotton handkerchieves, with a separate room

for night and underwear, where the lady will

serve the ladies.

she feels the cod, and he wears winter mittens.

windows are colour coordinated, the clothes

link arms, bed socks abound. fluffy.

this is a most useful place, where one can

buy traditional, hire hats for splendid weddings,

hats will last, with  the marriage, time

will tell.

not visited, please do, it is next to  roberts,

the coffee shop.

both splendid premises. dolgellau.

sbm.

what to say? friday afternoon.     some say

another life, another possibility, an episode.



some say ampersand while some say and.

another thing means the hedge goes round,

and cut quite well can lead to misgivings &

other dynamics.



my surroundings are slightly unkempt.



this does not mean that i dislike those

neatly cut. today i was amazed. it was

a topiary thing.



i think.







sbm.

the sun was out yesterday,

all day.



logs stacked, sticks sorted and tidied,

categorised in various piles, those

for keeping, some for disposal.



relocate the little bird house, robins

wait as does the cat nearbye.



in and out avoiding neighbours,

no time for chat.

finish the outdoor painting.

fall into bed early.



next morning the solar lights still

flashing, the sun shone all day.



sbm.

surround this area,
live inside. loving
lamps ,damp autumn air.

shadow,               films
with out words, stuttering.

moths, yes i usually write
of moths, now long legs
come into play. outside

planes fly over, estuary
birds call. autumn.

sbm.

requires a scanner,
patience,
strength of spirit
for so many works.

i like repetition,
i have proved it.

balancing
skills come into play,

tableaux.

it was my job
in the office,
now my pleasure.

sbm.

so you cut off your left hand

or was it your right?          to

own the land.

to dig and grow.



was it wealth you required

or  happy living.             one

handed.



****** mess.



i hear the woodturner

has hurt his finger.



sbm.

if i were at home today,

i would light the fire

ready

for the day.



i am coming to meet

you from the train,

the railway line

along the coast.



we will drink tea,

and i will show you

the brooches.



sbm.

these are the shorter days,
darker days, woodsmoke,
apple wood, colours of joy.

believe in the world, that
you can spell first time.

be proud as you point
out where you live, at
all there is.

i go offline a while.

while, all will be well.

sbm

how do they know to come back,

how

to come back? .                   i asked

steaming at central          station.



they were sending

eggs by post those days, and dad

sent primroses,              i am told.



in boxes.



remember the day we bought

the cat, placed in a      special

one  for                       carrying,

marked                         pigeon.



became his name.



they sent them away by train,

later



we imagined we saw them fly

back.



sbm.

some want their receipts, other don’t.

it is all a matter of taste, etiquette,
upbringing and security. in the bag or
wallet sir?

some check at home, that all is well,
secure and safety. some shred, while others
burn the evidence of careful spending.

i put them in the compost bin, where only
the resident mouse will see them.

it eats well there.

i know not its gender,
nor political persuasion.

there is a shop nearby,
a charity that sells
some things for a penny.

i bought an orange collander.

sbm.

faith in the garden,

that some one will care

tend, the beds, grow rhubarb,

again. a crown is cheap on ebay.

they have made raised beds,

left proper pots littered,

here and there,

an inspiration to some

who pass. a disappointment

for those who seek perfection,

head for disppointment.

buy a little tin for seeds

to keep them dry, buy an old bucket

ready for the fruit patch.

clover.

sbm.

land or sometimes sea

can be

territory.



people divided.



people drowned.



sbm.

written after the article,

was so before, now becomes

more evident

light bulbs and cotton hankies .

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.

how can one write here

convey, the lovely day.

thoughts on this

are that we keep it still

inside, to preen and gloat,



quietly

mine to hold, review

at leisure.



yet, i tell this.

it was such a lovely day.



sbm.

songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life

the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
small life

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


the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

sbm

i do not know

what happened really.



i tried very thing,

even #hash tags.



tea bags

and sundry groceries



from londis.



would have tried waffle

dish cloths,



but there was only the blackness

and deep borders.



very every thing

#dontknowwhathappenedhere

sbm.

let not words defeat me

in the chaos of this place.

I like to speak of abstraction,

tidy places.



I like my washing blowing high,

fresh winds and freedom,

scented with robins eggs

and butter flight.



I lived in a flat once, balconied

and still have bad dreams.

©sbm

later the day dusks, air cools,

down the back track to the lane.


there is fire in the sky,

why don’t the trees burn?


one cloud hovers, red,

one cloud .

this is a later walk,

early mornings

spent writing.


see the birds roost,

hear the last call,

black bird

this is dusk.

sbm.

managing?  knowing that it will come clear,

gradually, carefully, piece on piece.

they do say, a little help

et cetera, they do say such

a lot of things.

help spurred me on to

sort and tidy, categorise

again.

they do say that it is *******,

yet placed in tidy piles, it

becomes most attractive.

they even like the photographs.

sbm.

surprising, probably teasing,
hopefully.        it was said.

deflated, we walked the lane,
watched the flood.     water

everywhere, washed the car
needlessly. tidied
the outbuilding, swept the

cellar.       it has been
raining a lot recently. be

careful what you say.

sbm.

they come in groups
watching the hawfinches
by my gate. by my gate
it fell, the hawfinch.

i had driven the mountain road
back. a liitle town,avenued,
the turning trees, adding an
edge of solemnity. coffee
and the price of fish,
greeted me.

home to find this
big beaked bird, broken.

they will come in groups.

sbm.

its a tidal river,
the sea water comes in to the bridge,
where they used to build boats.
the river full and still, mid flow,
i watched and looked early,
i noted the sheep tracks where we run,
parallel.

‘don’t jump’, he said, as if i would,
the grave digger, grinning,
‘ happy new year’
and the same to you, angel.

years ago,
i may have jumped,
after you buried him.

its those like you,
that see the beauty of the river,
where the seal comes to play,
and the tide goes up to the bridge.

so we laugh and wave,
and go on our way
up to the bridge.

sbm.

edited 2014.

box hedged, so neat you can lean.

most days the doors are open,
on monday the doors are open.

wardrobe, cupboards, willingly,
if not just ask. see all the things
with love, to work with . linen fabric
hand sewn, pleated, contrast panels,
hung with tissue. brown paper
tied with notes. remember
their polished shoes, the smell of
home, your childhood.

books are tied in black, quilts
stitched with feathers, while friends
drift into mind, move, softly leave.

concentrate on another way.

watch the birds.

sbm.

made lovely, left ot on the cooling

tray. all  night.



the wildcat came, left a faint smell,

yet did not eat it.



#breakfast.



sbm.

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.


waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.


all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.


you do not need to buy them, you can

caress them nicely.


they are soft when born, soft as babies are.


above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.


he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

sbm.

seen from the window,
the gate is open.

the grass cutter comes,
spends the day,
into dusk.

the gate is open,
the grave digger
working.

the gate is open this
morning. birds fly.

sbm.

probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.

we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
novel.

moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
so,
they will be placed in a box
sometime,  a suitable
one  found.

there is a collection now,
the falling days.

sbm.

i talk to bones
old bones now
hard in earth
and the ground comes up to meeet me.

no leaves to cover
me


©sbm

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.

who so mrs ciano ?



are you blest, is this

how to say your name?



ask the curator, learn

another world, where

not all is at it seems.



it is just an opinion.



they took the paper, the cotton

away.



©sbm.

the days of heaven gold

are coming to its end.

are we the children

of the fall, those of us

who dance in the leaves,

who fail in the cold or the

brashness of summer









read about the courage of others,

about the closing of doors,

against the rain and the wind

blowing.

read about the loss of brothers,

about the moving of house

escaping pain,and remember

these golden days of autumn.

going







read about the perfection

that never is, the quality that fades

in time, with crosses,

people’s minds.

read about the rain in the cwm,

that blinds and blinds,

and loses paths and footings





**





read about the days

in the old house

the days that are, and were,

and may come with dreams,

and fortitude.

read about it all, and i ask, why do you read here? here?

sbm.

i think i have a picture of
the car wash in betws,
model railway and vistas.

yet i cannot find it.
the little people
were waving their arms around.

so i am going with the frog car
and carbolic soap. the middle
one being imperial leather.

thank you.



sbm.

the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.

harp strings
relay the vital net,
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,

lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

10.
**( words and uncertainty)

i am a painter and decorator

with colour and words

the confectioner,

i like sweets, jelly rings.

i shall measure uncertainty, probably

he is splitting logs & sawing

in the sun

they will go at the back where the wind

blows round



kenny says they take years to dry

he knows his stuff



i broke the mower & have two

strimmers that work



cut the paths

tenderly leaving the flowers to grow



we try not to go out here bank holiday

week ends



so a rest indoors now



with



ARTURO MARQUEZ – DANZÓN Nº 2; GUSTAVO DUDAMEL
in blue writing

as if

it is important

you see



sbm.

every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.



sbm.

you know those few days so busy,
much to do and eating sweets in the rain.

when all is small boys and peacocks.

the door groans, it may be a creepy
place, yet all the hedges are good.

all goes quiet again, so smell the perfume.

note the jasmine growing and know
that some things come again.

sunday.

sbm.

there is nothing wrong with listening,
it may be nice. other people’s voices
besides your own.

there is nothing wrong with helping,
forgetting your own agenda,
a while.

maybe we shall drive the weather, into
another season now the change of colour
is at the top.

she said i sound like seven, the other
required les nasal reverberations.

i do not read in public.

let us help each other.
be kind. listen when he
sends his love.

sbm.

in the garden,                  small doll.  



to be laid in flowers,           dripping  

with buttercups,    words and honey.



to be thin and brown,

let all those things depart,

that hurt you.



to sleep with birds, windows wide,

to know,that   all will come again



in time.



small doll.



i do not have to enter the competition.



sbm

some people seeking perfection,
their dream in music
decline.

have their own reality,
ideals, unreasonable
requests.

we found the shade,
missed any remarkable
rainfall, ate the cherries,
at the royal welsh.

no are no demands,
no disappointments.

these are the days,
a repetition.

sbm.

sun, was done and dusted.

by the slate they talked, shining.
faces older now, friendship retained.

learned a little more on life, the small
things, the wisdom rings
the generations.

i did not need all the mange tout.

sbm.

it was said that god saved them, yet
what a cost. i heard the news quite early,
it is an old radio. reeling we had tea, not
being in a place even to imagine.

most of us are speechless.then one raised
his voice

in fury.

it is unimaginable.

sbm.

is an abreviation for a little place,
a town with pollarded trees, an avenue.

pleasant, the word springs to mind,
and colours. she wrapped my old red
trowel in gardening news, and
pasted cuttings on the wall.

the sun was out and while this may
be an issue, we covered our heads,
carried on.

museum past. locked behind glass,
50p for elders, free to locals,
we overpaid, talked of may bugs,
talked of most things.

a day out in llani.

sbm.

to live in this place,

walk down to see fish,

waterboat men, dimpling

miniscus.



rest amongst bird

song, tapping the wood.



know you have

a piece of mind,



however fleeting.


sbm.


to be in this place.

they think, yet have
they googled bullying.

what is so wrong with
being kind and gentle
in approach.

we have found here
that softness works
well.

to escape the dreadfulness
of life.

prevent wars, even small ones.

sbm.

Secrecy.

Felicity quietly enters the water

to drown .



Secretly he  had been watching. Dives in to save her.

Pulling her back to shore, her wide mouth screaming.



Sincerely he resuscitates her



wide mouth on wide mouth



Secretly she enjoys it.

biggest leaves on the high street,

oswald’s tree. no one swept, bothered.


we hurried by seamlessly, or did we?

some of us looked, a few of us bothered.


some of us helped each other. it is

always a nice day in

oswestry.

sbm.