ann.

it changed the shopping habits.

the medication aisle, opposite

hair products, held responsibility.



so this is written past tense,

when   badges  were awarded for bandage

folding, tied neatly round heel, supporting

the essential ankle, without that feet

would hang in space.



noting the itallics.



there were crepe, support, cotton

slings, all quite cheap, yet not as

free as rags.



the next shelf was tablets for aches

and belly hurts from eating stuff too much.



folk are proud of how they talk, while in the

present tense.



and so they should be.



sbm.

then she spoke to me,
came from abergele,
at the door all day,
learning history
of kitchens, copper pans.

talked of every day, not dates,
or kings and queens.

the bedroom roped with blue,
a smallish bed and posies.

I feel nothing here,
no lost words or empathy.

it was closer, below.

where are you now?

is it a spinette?

sbm.

yes

i have help
each month

some years the tree man comes

i fiddle every day. lifting logs. i may
get stronger.

it is abutting a church
yard





( thanks to paul brookes for the prompt)

take the photograph
of the photograph,
we have chinese whispers.

we have the closing of the
house soon, wonderland.

removing all things metal,
placing sweet chestnuts
in corners. the outside
paint so very shiny,

interiors.

sbm

we wish      it would turn

about, with music playing.



a melamine plate

candy striped.



gas lighting, lanterns,

disinterested parties.



silent silver, from the

bric a brac stall.



look at them closely,

what a wonder!



sbm.

road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few leaves fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.

sbm.

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.

sbm

reading how the body works, you
will have a better understanding,
yet they do not teach of peptides
at school.

they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts,
i did not know microbes fancy food,
move our choices.

it seems we are not in so much
control, perhaps that is why
we like routine.

rituals.

i read a lot yesterday, then
mowed the lawns and went
empty headed.

sbm.

they came through dust, on
horses. appearing at seven.

he spoke through dust,
his voice as water.

i dreamed my hair was golden,
that people stayed. yet i
woke alone.

it seems a darker morning.

sbm.

the film continues, some of the old cast,
new actors oblige, ideas on lack
of addictive ways. simple days without
receptors.

singing under breath, counting,
unpacking boxes, this is the lead.

hints are posted, and may you
believe them graciously. for

many times will you be tested.

there were substitles, out of
focus, we could not read the
other language.

the film continues….

peptides.

sbm.

has  hard winter come at last,

does one rhyme this, write icy

blast, or simply carry on

the usual way, he said it is progressive,

it is just the way we think.



early, clearing  ashes, prepare

a fire with three pages, sticks and odd

ends of packaging. the better coal

with one small log does the trick.



the fire in the other room stays in

all night no problem, with a guard.



the fire officer came yesterday

to protect us in our beds.



today we wrap the winter

gifts.



some say spring has come.



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

it is number 13
a thunder ball
in my mind.

who is james bond
anyway,
he is ficticious.

elephant is not.

we got up too early,

went back to bed.

with a cup of tea.



sbm.

the walkers came dripping,

spots on the newly mopped floor,

as if i cared.



people bought umbrellas.



that day. i might have writtien it wrong,

is no spell check there.



there are mirrors, that show

the size of the discrepancy.



after the balance, they sheltered,

then made a run for it.



it was brain washing.

sbm.

it is like loving a ghastly child

she said.



looked down,

her ankles swollen

in the heat.



sbm.

wake up to see the shy pink.
clouds.

so we stood together working
pushing rags through to
make things neater.

others searched the lines,
the crossing, looking
for reincarnations.

we thought they were
sheltering from the rain,
they did not seem to know,

when really they should.

the rugs are made of rag.

sbm.

the days get dark early, even just gone  three

yesterday.

the book looks boring ,the same entry

each day

descending.



all other mediocrities  cancelled,

including festivities.



the days are darker,

we gets thinner.



sbm.

so you are still in bed?



yes



are you not feeling any better?



no. it is like a bombshell, with

the bomb left in it. boom and my



little world i loved is shattered.



all my things are the same, yet

something shifted. i am bereft.



i cannot help, i am the same.



yes i know.



sbm.

simple notes, there is much discussion now,

where the place used to be pure quiet

and acceptance.



it seems to him that talking does not

get the job done.  however gently balancing

wool, soft  merino ,words fall . we have

many slight colours, no fading, only the physical

type nearer closing.



the writing helper, word count abound below,

while fingers fly.   he says the words come

at other times, you know, he may be right.



we have a slight covering of snow this

morning early.



sbm.

you may be rendered speechless

again.



i have planned the route, refered the destination.



days of memory.



sbm.

the bear is very tired today,

has stayed in bed. we have

the linen sheet.



left rumpled now.



slowly we dreamed

we became homeless



again.



sbm.

i limped.

into the cathedral.
my life will be sorted,
if i bought the book @
£1.99, said suffering is
good.

i looked at the boys,
looked at the floor,
read ecclesiastes,
we are as dust,

and limped out.

sbm

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,

only just a theory,
yet used independantly,
alongside honest work,
for mending.

the film continues,
some of the old cast, new actors oblige,
ideas on lack of addictive ways.
simple days without receptors.
singing under breath, counting, unpacking boxes,
this is the lead. hints are posted, and may you believe them graciously.

for many times will you be tested.

there were substitles, out of focus,
we could not read the other language.
the film continues…. peptides.

sbm.

there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words.        we are sorry that you cried.

it has been a good morning so far.   with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.

there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip.   i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely,              kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.

it all showed pride and i know

you have seen it too. raddled

face in mirrors, knowing that we

are all much the same. we move



on. on.

together.



sbm.

first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm

should one be listening?                        it is common courtesy, after all,

yet minds designed to wander,                         do so, through the glass

door where the waitress hoovers,               reveals her scottish descent

whilst delivering our coffee and the single biscuit each.            miscounted .

one  left over. no one takes it.       it feels like being in a hotel, she thought.

it is old. the floor slopes nicely, warm .                      the chairs supportive

while the sore throat slides gradually in….

sbm.

a long way to buy liquorice, anguish,
to draw, with draw.

remember the table,
bread and fruit, slate laid bare.

know that, when all is bungaloid
your heart lays elsewhere.

sbm.

went yesterday, there were floods by the cob,

seems the sheep were safe. quiet in the stores,

people still stuiffed, including me, aren’t

we lucky, fortunate in our lot. saw the lad from

the theatre, had a hug.



the next store,  just round the corner

sparrows outside bathing in puddles.



bought our sticks, some ribbon of course

50p

another installation?



I like hopping, it is a gift.



family language.



sbm

through blaenau, orange now,
bracken competing with slate,
winning a while, as leaves
fall.

to conwy, the road
rising above the flow,
one tree remembered.

two calves run down
to the others. on arrival

admire the quality of
bunting hung here, cotton,
with spots. there is a festival.

we had a meeting.
nine circles.

sbm.

it is a quarry man’s cottage, well they all are in blaenau except the foreman’s house.

a small villa.       the bus goes by.                                                       some things have labels.



some folk wear solid shoes, a good overcoat                                           look you in the eye.



some friends are dusty, remind us of

the grumpy egg.



sbm.

shall we go away to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hiding in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.

so we nipped into town yesterday.


again, on proper business no slacking.


though i have to say that i did linger

with a friend, discussed the jewelled mirror,

the state of play with gifts and those bibelows,

. we talk of them again that day. meanwhile

life continues badly for some here, while others idly

shop. we discover cotton gloves, another time.


scrabble for the juniors, who  make up their own

words, have a larger vocabulary than seven.


pink hanbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.


we discussed correcting the till

error, decided it may just confuse, then

carried on our separate ways.


again.  this is dolgellau.


sbm.

90p, smells of road repairs,
winter fires at home.

decoration only,
adds colour to the bathroom.

gentle room, probably
needs a splash of orange.

traditional soap suitable
for all ages.

contains mainly things,
naturally antiseptic.

sbm.

find them in the dark,

feel the weight, know

that this is quality.



test the balance, know

it is a good design.



switch on the light,

enjoy the look of them,

even the blue plastic sample.



holiday in oban,

scour the chartity, find

some good ones, buy,

to bring home as souvenirs.



inverary, visit their

castle of spoon.



it is a gift.

sbm.

no news on sunday, asking why
am told that it was news all week,
there fore we need a rest one day.

moving on, i am engrossed in folding,
balancing, all those things i am
employed to do, some days.

the war may stop one day.

hopefully.

sbm.

flow. we are a different colour          now,

words came readily , night, the white room,

gathering.                        woven with detail.



light early, empty headed, toes tapping, nothing

is remembered.                                  early grey,

sky pink.                                          another day,

in our rooms and partitions.                          this

does not mean.                                     i love you .

sbm.

the idea left us dancing.

use what is already there,
make do and mend, linen

threads hang heavy, needles
preserved. small holes ready.

shall we mend the rags, or
pin them onto wool pads
ready for discovery.

these are the planning days,
the filming ways, of
lifts and wild imagininings.

the tabernacle wales.
the tannery.

sbm.

is round, and

round  the table,

the few.



spoke in tongues

of age and wisdom.



smiled the crease

of ages.



so while all is flung apart,

we watched, waited.



we were near the sea.



sbm.

changed your life?



it may have,

if only imperceptibly.



#definition, very slight, gradual, or subtle:

the imperceptible ***** of the road. See more.

#so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
so slight, gradual, or subtle as not to be perceived.
“his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

i admire those i see  proactive, speaking
out even about little issues. it may get on your
nerves, you may like a quiet time.

it may be so slight, you did not notice.
yet.

the change can be so huge, that
he does not wish to live in this
world any more.

do you worry at the news too?

sbm.

i went to see the water,
estuary edge to the road,
water blind. there were signs.

sheep sheltered under rock.

glad i saw the old houses,
wintering, wood smoked,
perfumed. glad i smelled
the oak burning, turning

the corner, saw the flood,
the road swimming, so
returned back home.

lit the fire.

i am glad i went.

they have reserved the book for me.

sbm

so feeling sickly

we confused the

artificial

for real.



came in from the sun.



dazed in the parlour,

until the feeling passed.



sbm.

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, quiety, put back,
in the box.

sbm.

it is another lanuage,
pinc, is welsh for pink.

small boys submit
digital, unlike the gate,
that glows rightly.

the touch of colour
is genius. some of us
are not, yet forge forward
with obsession, madness,
variety of colours.

there is another language.

sbm.

my clocks have not gone anywhere,
yet moved the hands as suggested.
tick happily round the house,
chiming out of time.

unlike most things in the house, they
need a flat surface.

radio and telephone are correct, other
things here are not.

three years to mend the mantleclock
in porthmadog.

sbm.

they may not like a controversal opinion, so cross it out in black.

i think that red may hit the mark better if there was a facility we

we used to amuse, may be delight, then it was censored. banned



to the bin.



quiet now, you will not hear any controversy, you may only read it



here.

cancelled my apprenticeship

neatly.



there.

harrogate in the rain.



cheap umbrella broke,

a delightful shade of pink,

abandoned.



abandoned the street

for the parlour, the crown.



mourned my shoes, wet



and ripping.



dripping

white nubuck.



watched the trees,

falling leaves.



good coffee

opposite

the pumproom.



harrogate.



sbm.

have you drank four tified wine,

guessed  years have passed.

walked the lane daily, to see a

small world outside, have you

poked the crevasses,  gathered twigs,

for lighting. taken photographs?



have you crashed into the old wood,

looking for the birds, found new growth,

there.



have you seen  monks walk the lane,

smelled the wax? have you seen the imprint,

the stone, st illtud?



i have.

sbm

a leaf fell, i thought of you.

i did not phone.

requiem.

sbm.

there was no fanfare,
no procession, no proclamation,
as i hit the button, no exclaimation
as i changed my life. as if no one
noticed, and if i am right, they
probably didn’t.

didn’t see as i drove the valley,
didn’t protest, or speak in tongues,
did not see the little things.

we bought winter food.

narcussus.

sbm.

we met in aldi quite by chance, leaning slightly away

from the cold of the freezer cabinets.the pizza area.



i asked about bill,she said he was fine,and working.



i told her of the pain and she sympathised.



we talked about breathing and having babies.



it was quite a nice autumnal day.



sbm.