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.

it is the little things that excite, even
in the height of summer, low look
for seeds, small flowers studded
in hedgerows, dry stone walls here.

our lane remains dusty, unmade, plans
delayed a while to update. developers have
bought the big house, a nice place for holidays
and rabbits.

the stone lion is gone, due to health
and saftey, wobbly.

there is a small pool, to look
in for small blessings , a reflection
on the day .

seeds
for the future.

sbm.

he came from another country,

has another accent.

he spent quite a lot

of money, his card

worked.


we all wear socks.


sbm.]

did the trick,
covered the label nicely.

white shiny boxes, free to
those that work there.

nicer than throwing away,
a waste.

these will go into exhibition,
full of archives from the past,
not locked behing glass.

she gave me the old photos,
i had lost them,
yesterday

I found them.

sbm.

while all things have changed.

rubbers are now a derivative of oil,
latex still drips from trees for certain usage.

we talked on god, death and whitsun,
on sunday. we banged the glass, together.

it broke.

there is an island near the holy head.

st michael.

sbm.

one thing then another, as   all regular days     really.



graphs will show it, we can draw ,        we may discuss.

if we wish,                                                  walk the graden

play with spelling with                                   punctuation.



this is no disaster,                 word survival          deleted.



we have
moved the line into a place of hedges, rural contemplation.

they say it begins at home,  that depends on                 belief.



we eat off broken plates.



titanic.



sbm.

we talk of soap at different angles, different colours.



in the war she sat in the outside toilet to avoid the

bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.



sunlight came more expensive,  washing in the

kitchen bowl.           green for the linen each day

and monday.



there were five of us including mum. gran

bought the pink.



i buy transparent.



he said that eventually he was able to join

the small soldiers brigade at five foot three

or less, and was killed three days after

landing.



short men were deemed no good at hand

to hand fighting.



at first.



( unless the enemy was short too)



rough cast.



sbm.

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.



sing in silence and simplicity.



sing for those in  remembrance .



dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.



one voice breaks.

dark winter.



sbm.

it is a small room full of gifts

now.



wrapped in plain paper, tied with string

or cotton, held with pins.



we have a water heater, we have family



and friends.



sbm.

google, i get pictures of the amazon and related places,

being scoured, and a dead

horses head.



he said that some are lying on their ages.



I expect sir if you were there, so  would

you.



the politician.



the jungle in calais.



sbm.

spelled refipe in old books,
expect difafter spelled the same.

manner.

check the symptoms daily.

it is that time of year, with whether,
fear for those at sea, the radio
plays for me.

these are the darker days,
petrified forests, all too
many effs. spelling can be
a pleasant pastime, when all else
fails.

to activate the brain, and pleasant hormones.

sbm.

presume it was.    walking

the lane,         looked back,

boys in black,            turn,

suddenly run     shooting.

shouting.                  turn,

do it all again,

again.                  i   turn,

all i see is heat haze.


we have four horses now.

sbm.

wind blows round our houses,
here.
wide walls hold  back, draughts
fan the fire. clean welcome air.

wind blows the sea into town, blows
the bodies. it is a very sad

affair.

small town, wind blows round.

the birds sang earlier this morning.

sbm,

serious matter making tea, then dinner.

cake with fruit, later vegetables      with

home made gravy.                           i know

there are more serious things.      i have

done them.                                            a lot.



it is just that

i do not wish to talk about them at     this

time.



jack , a dull boy.



sbm.

a wild cat came. broke the glass.

it stood there twenty years, now
it is shattered.

and cuts.

sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

dead head the roses,
suffocate in silk. stifle
their feelings.

dead head the roses,

suffocate in silk, stifle

their feelings.

bundle them blind with
bloodied rags, boiled

clean.

bind them twice. the smell
is decay.

Magritte.

sbm.

we have a clean white bed, slept late,

a shock to break the ritual. a treat

on a major scale. probably ten.



i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.



feel the textures, the threads, know that when

all things are sad, there is a happiness to be

found, in these places.



in the ribbon she gave me, in the thoughts,

the gestures from friends, their aknowledgement

of who i am.



. it has been a happy time.



sbm.

the world looks.

where laughter,
secrets lived. light

streams back,
faces change.

the photographs
deleted. turn your face.

the tide has turned.

this is the coast.

sbm.

they say, and close the stores.

it is complicated, to do

with floor space and employees

rights. we had chocolate eggs,

worked hard, let our arms loose.

warmer now, the sun shone,

peple came, visited, smiled,

fondled the wool, spoke of age

and weaving. he said there

were many looms in his day.

he is eighty eight, he told me

many times.

sbm.

laundry day is tuesday, it is collected.

brought back clean on friday, a card
label, cloth number, stuckt.

he uses the stable to deliver, not
disturbing anyone.

when all is unpacked, white and ironed,
we change again. it is another week.

the pattern continues. cloth numbers.

sbm.

to see this unexpected,
ladies in the dark
repeating.

the gold cape of mold,
where the stitches
held fabric. i had
to see it, all round.

in mold it was a replica,
no vision, no air. so

we took a photograph.

she said she has to go
out each day, as his ashes

are

upstairs.

i am not blonde, yet
am known in the village,
as the title.

sbm

a rabbit lives by there

among the green scented branches.



peoples’ litter.



sbm.

it is the lower limb,
that dries, the skin
that itched. now

we have emollient
typed in braille,
made of soft paraffin.

is there a hard form,
my brothers used liquid
on their hair, parted
severely, on a particular side.

i have a cardigan buttons
that way, thick and warm.

when greased we feel we
may be going to sea swim
the channel. legs all sticky.

it is the lower limb that dries.

sbm

they say she knitted till she left, sat up in bed.

others met in london, neither happy,
moved back to wales.

blanket stitch, small dogs, told
my story, in batches, the stitches
punctuating.

words now.

words of life, words of wonder
that these things happen.

sbm.

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.

crow bird,
pecks package.

hoping for a sandwich.

b.l.t.

there is nothing quite like changing stuff,

you see he always came on tuesday, but then

we started writing that day, so he will come

on thursday each month.



to help me.



it wa a mucky day, cold with driving rain, he did

what he could until we both hid in the kitchen,

eating cake, and mending plates.



sbm.

what you see is magnified.

they leave here larger than life,
petrified in their own forests.
scan beds and lens.

light the cracks, the boxes.

tie the books closed, leather
bound, broken, words lost.

boxes can be opened to
reveal,  still quiet faces.

small lives

sbm

so you think i wear a cotton dress,

while all round is stormimg,

you think that people on boats are lovely

when it is a cruise ship, waving.

what do you think when passengers

are drowning?

this is not cunard, this is not a

myth.

sbm.

late june, it is a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

we have watched the house,
is he leaving now?  is this that darker
place?

plans for the forest fell apart, with apathy,
lack of repellant. we will try again,
tonight.

it is a darker place.

sbm.

we went on the bus to visit, we must have used two yet i cannot quite remember.



i felt fear and excitement, the same emotion as when i overheard that he had died.



felt guilty over that ever since.



while visiting i was sent to the corner shop for sweets and ****.i felt useful yet in latter years have reconsidered the task.



plans were imagined for his christmas gift.



he never made it that far.



sbm.

slightly astonished at the words he said, mentioning the word foreigners,

surprised she was from finland ‘of all places’. spoke to her loudly, bent

near as if she was deaf.                                    she spoke another language

&

she spoke english.



a country gentleman indeed. was not sure they came packaged this way.



the exterior smart, the interior needs changing.



sbm.

:: :: :: :: :: …

ways to infuse paper are free. perhaps the soaking

will work, after the hand drill &   sanding. ways to

make haste are    unecessary

sometimes, one achievement

a day is enough.



you bought your home, possibly.      the largest

amount spent. ,more than those shoes, they are

in dollars.



this is enough. some days.

are meant to be easy, to drill and reflect. look

back there is a comma in the wrong       place.

the world is infused with abbreveation

&.

punctuation.

sbm.



*the only company to repace your bristles

a family name with two parts,
yet what it has to do with
guns , heaven knows.

there is a hotel designed
around that shape, apparently.

looks out to sea.

some times one wonders about the fuss,
and worry, when.

it is only a privet hedge.

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.

check the task, ready the mind.

let thoughts mellow and compute

nicely.  we will be all ready on the day.

we have a plan, whilst gratitude guides

us. nothing is necessary, except

collars and socks.

some will understand,

while others will not.

it was a hay loft, converted

now, the upper room.

listen.

sbm.

patrwm is welsh for pattern.



pattern can be lovely, grand

and decorative.



some can be ugly.

repetitive.



it is part of the family.



genes.



sbm.

seems to live there now,
scratching at night, rustling,
while we wait below for
quiet.

company in the day, when
darkness falls ocd ensues

we write the day, draw
in lines, make conversation. we have lost
a friend,

gained another.

sbm.

what to say, when you cannot help.

smile, when the work is overflowing,
when nothing froths properly. milk is not
my favourite thing.

never has been.

those dependant on never eating.
much.

a pause, a comma,here and there, sometimes
confuse. yet know the difficult task comes
easy in time, with practice.

you may not think so when the machine explodes,
covers in embarrasment. there is another mill.

some times it feels awkward.

the looms are still working.

sbm.

this bear appears without acknowledgement from you,

or you. not knowing the demands of an early life,

you cannot imagine the decisions, none made lightly.



you trip your tongue, then walk away. the bear arises

and sweats worry with torment until time tells.



it was  assumed that if you had not tried it,

you may still understand.



these loads are not too heavy,   the bear will find

other ways, then sleep again.



sbm.

have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.





words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly

deeds.



i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.



you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.

sbm.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

reduced, and knowing how you like your nuts,                                           i bought them.

the small boy chuckled.

radio four this morning, suggested dropping ***** ( another laugh, small child) notice that mistakes do not **** us,                                        mortified though we can be in error.



i have worked this way a while for interest, and am still awake and                breathing.



this morning i forgot a while,   radio waves me back on track.                    i have mended

the plate, my fingers

stick.



sbm.

mostly read on the internet,

news, politics, all the rhetoric, yet



i have my favourites.



days that lack

deep concentration.



i mentioned earth &heaven.;



not asher lev.



it remains the same.



sbm.

if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?

life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.

whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.

these things do happen,
to most people.

except some  seem immune to
harm.

who are the chosen ones?

the radio plays the same tune,
faintly upstairs.

sbm.

was at the national library of wales,

you know, that big building in aberystwyth,

just after bow street. they have a red carpet on the stairs,

men standing at the base, to guard, to help you.

tie the books in cases, stare at the black book  again.

mrs ciano is labelled, and no one looks at her.

there is a castle here, though no one thinks so.

sbm.

so much to talk about. the news is all

debate this morning.



yet.



those words will not help folk in aleppo.



you who watched live, was it even



mentioned?



aleppo blasted.  ****** ******.



sbm.

a little place. face the wall.

dream forward.



sbm.