the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.



nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.



the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are



wool gatherers.



sbm.

was planned.


did the domestics,

packed the bottles,

bell jars, drew

thirty three drawings,

of vikings, an afternoon

writing, waiting

on the visitor.


yet, it seemed

like a lovely day off.

sbm.

talk about chucking it down,

we wondered what the noise

was.

heard gwil running in , no time

to stop for logs. the cat came

streaming.

rushed to the window, to take

photographs.

talk about chucking it down.

sbm.

closing in, the lane

comes narrower.

slowly walk, waiting,

she is usually behind now, eventually catches up.



otters footprints scattered, the

fishermen are here, on the bridge

in the pool. **** gathers  the tide.



heavy sky humbles us

to home.



where they wait.



sbm.

smoothing the wrinkles i think

of another time. how reasonably

priced they are, such a usefull item,

to protect the bed.



those that sleep there can

rest in the knowledge that

all is well covered, there will be

no shame, no hardship.

remember the days of rolling

an

old one down the stairs, tying

with ineffective string to await

the council collection.



reorder the thing, much better

now to protect your assets.

i tuck in the corners, and remember

that this is monday.

sbm.

cake and photographs
being processed.

memories form,
liking the patterns,
move on
preparing
for the fall.

apples, blackberries lure,
we walk the lane, the
two of us, precious

comes, regardless
of traffic and opportunities.

we changed the rug later.

sbm.

i did not write yesterday.



i delivered the case, i made.

they made.



i saw a little pram for dolls.



it squeaked delightfully.



if it is not sold, when i

collect the case. i may

buy it.



sbm.

you have been away for ages

said the bear, with no speech marks.



yes, two weeks. remember you use

italics.



i spoke to you each day.



how come when you left me at home?



your voice is in my head,



see.



yes



sbm.

it was ivy, dead, that flapped,
strangled wire. this wind, this winter.

now these are labelled,
tidied, and wiped clean,
cloth. damped
in warm water. he came

from nantlle valley,
pretty place, gritty place
on the way to snowdon.

he talked, we watched dust,mote
imagined words, saw
the butterfly, it was the
thirteenth of this month

may be i am soft like
gentle ways.

we went to the mountain
sat at the base chatting,
looking up.

walking the path, the sun
caught our shoulders,

at the salmon leap, we paused
at the lack of fish.

grass grew greener,
we are older now,

happy.

enough.

sbm.

untidy, never used as such.

have a bread oven         too,

redundant

now we have the            new

world.



a mix of excitement and haste

we tied the books, and hid them

there.



with the dusty            cruciform



and one candle.



one rag left hanging…



sbm

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

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

sbm.

good name.

i often spell it worng,
ask him.

met on the station,
like a film, black and white.

kissed, discussed the world,
and poetry over coffee, in exhibition,
with fish n’ chips, recommended by
the locals, tasted like dripping, lovely.

visited an old house,i talked about
my old house, we discovered cures
for ghastly things with diagrams, all
spelled with ‘f’ s.

over tea, we turned black and
white again. decided,

any difference should make no difference,
the third word not allowed,
no more.

good name,
we are friends in colour.

sbm.

‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’



sbm

making the best
of the battery,
typing fast
hurredly.

not worrying if it rhymes.

we thought it
was the searching
that drained our resources.

yet it was the cheap and shoddy
pink thing that caused
the uproar, stressfully.

no need to hide then,
we have become as public,
all things considered.

demolishing the nissen hut,
where thistles grow.

sbm.

words came as i walked the lane with you,
watched the swallows. thinking i will write
them down back home. leaned on the bridge a while
boatmen dancing.

where have the years gone?

words lost.

radio news .

gaza.

sbm.

quiet all night, then suddenly, the quiet
voice sings. it is time to speak, to make
a mark.

to dash the pencil ******* stone, break
the lead. erase inherited memory, genes
denied.

listened, it talks quietly, listen.

cut the paper, brace the ash, rub and smudge,
think again.

think if it had been you.

yours.

sbm.

drive it one spring

morning early before the traffic

starts.

i have done it many

times before , know the road,

villages, the pretty bends.

taliesin, bow street, clarach.

yesterday a sea fret, misted trees,

added edge ; visual delight.

i like the road to aberystwyth.

sbm.

we have been there while it is open.

we went there when it was closed. when
no one tidied, while the apples grew.

we sat the geat chairs in all weathers.

now it is open again, and all the flowers
grow.

cywain

sbm.

at home, november,
trailing rain, floods
the field,
damp horse droops,
dark, shiny, mud
splattered.

we walk, talk to the roofer,
jen on her bike, slimmer.

we draw, as film negative,
to replace the drawings
lost in post.

resite.

sbm

may be beans or latrines,
who cares anyway. love them.

yes it is interesting to read,
to watch the animation. no need to judge.

this is the way to learn, to watch,
to think, take photographs.

google when back at home, read about
people, and know we may after all
be twins.

it is a big house, he spends his time
rendering the walls.

a dark bird has flown over.

sbm.

sits prettily, the starched mat
is frayed a little now.

it was an evening of festivities over
poetry, regarding god, diana, the queen
of hearts. catch phrase, a moderate game,
played better standing close, somehow.

the books were cheap, stock  sale in the library,
he left his life to live

in alaska. chapter two

sbm.

just one day left to write on  purple

for no particular reason except it is

suggested.



one day left to remember the    lilac

he wished was white, and then it was

so.



one day today to change the colour

of blood.



purple is family, the colour of walls ,

time of remembrance.



lavender will not grow here, the soil is

not appropriate.



sbm.

play early, after the weather
forecast, heavy rain,
with heavy stomach
this morning.

tell tale of the nougat
renowned as chocolate
treat.

the book discarded
we twitter and tweet
the early morning,
the two of us.

he showed himself
his own photo.

said,’look this is me’
look.
sbm.

he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.

the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.

the weather warning is cancelled.

6.12 am.

sbm.

seems i have reinvented

everything quieter than before.

wet autumn days or is it winter,

the change comes

gradually.

i dreamed a cloud of

falling leaves, awake to find it is so.

it is so very quiet here today.

sbm.

nice message thank you.

yes I shall like to get to know your friends more, they are welcoming.

i like them. there is something special , the more I know her.

have a good time in oswestry, it is a pretty place.

hope your wrist improves.


sbm.

in a fit of peak,
we decided, yes.

the soap in is the
bathroom, ann

as is the amputee
swimming doll
free.

my gifts are still unpacked,
i did, then packed them
back again, to enjoy
today.

the garden is in my mind,
as are al the other delights
we saw, ann.

me must go
back again.

thank you, ann.



sbm.

it is my mother’s birthday.

we stood and watched
punch and judy yesterday,
while god was all behind us.

he bashed, we laughed,
he bashed, laughed more,
he bashed.

children were removed
from the vicinity,
others stayed.

incorrect musings
regrading life and buskers.

pastel buildings mask
the incorecctness of it all.

it is my mothers birthday.

sbm.

yesterday was sky and small dresses,

all work, some worry due to tiredness.

yesterday the green house came, different

than expected, yet a treat none the less.

sometimes we miss the hyphen, the proper

format, we are not as expected either. yet

we does our best, sits in the suns, and plan

to hang dresses in the trees.

the sky is pinc this morning.

not a typo, pinc is welsh for pink,

as i have said before.

sbm.

busy day,
the customer
spoke.

rough tweed,
manicured hands,
words ring true.

beautiful welsh.

man.

sbm.

frozen, the code will not work, nor will the counting with interruptions, all things moved about. there is a discount, on top the discount, so a discussion ensued on buttons.

now there is an understanding.  the season of it all fits, the picture is made the pieces are in place. left on the tray, photographed for all to see.



talked in numbers and rhythms. a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze. on return, no one spoke.



i have written of them before, now in sign and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity.



spring comes round, and we keep the litte things, again.



sbm.

have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independant air, profound words,
from those who care.

are we all naive?

i think i am.

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.

http://tinyurl.com/o32x6fn

maybe that is the right way up.

while all is quiet here with words
and drawing, single stones are multiplied.

we weave and play the stolen hours
into dawn, dusk, all the hours, birds sing.

people writhe and communicate,
some with silence and retribution.

there was a time, we went to wonderland.

sbm

we talked yesterday of tidying
cupboards, placing soaps in tins,
prepare for winter.

polish the wooden horse
on wheels, sweep
the steps, feel the still
warm air of autumn.

down the lane they mend
the roof. i had a visitor.

she saw the logs ready,
lost her way on exit.

they say it is a hobbit house.

sbm

creeps at the upper window
now, perfumed. cutting
gently round the windows,
letting in light and autumn days.

inside the cat watches while
carefully we trim, minding the
red rose. like he minded the pumpkin.

the light was different yesterday.

sbm.

deep shadow in the valley,

gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.

summer now, they come with midges,

breathe fire on the bridge, do not see

us for imagining to live here.



as we did once. now settled in boxes,

we grin and grow.

longer days are

shorter days.





if you opened the lid, i think

you will love them too.



their faces.

sbm.

so there will be a delay,       yet the work will continue.



we shall think of you fondly, as we think of our own past,

our misdemeanors.



how the shapes fit together, somewhat randomly and form

the creatures we are today.



there is no reason, no purpose to it all. just us. you and me,

christine.



sbm.

much of the time is spent with this

or other things which pass the day

nicely.



use the brain. remembering strong

wrapping paper in folded sheets.



woolworths.



i have a modern roll that tears

easily, yet now continue the theme

of recycled, flattened yet stil creased,

tied with inevitable red thread or ******

rags

again.



each year in the afterwards

we would iron the paper flat

ready.



the years go round.



sbm.

lost in the ashmoleum, lost
in antiquity.

i may have paid the price.



the museum is free.

accordingly.

as i said,
i could not help
but cry.

we do not often speak of it.



bound.

sbm.

there is a dead sheep in the lane.



pushed to one side away from

the passing.



traffic may have hit it, or it went

natural?



we walked on up near the copper

mine , a darker place yet

the forest came light.



sbm.

people used to be at home officially,

provide invitations, wait for teas,

the convenient cake.



in another world, i am at home,

invitation revoked,

no need for refreshment. then.



yet the friends shall come, needing no formal,

notifications or redemptions.


it will be a pleasant day, as the hills

go down, many tremblous things

abound.


while all the while you stay quiet,

boxed, fading into your own silence.


i left the note by the clock, the calling card.

sbm.

visuals

this morning you came with snow

falling



we know the cars

with snow falling



it is not what we meant

yet



we swapped photographs



blaenau translated

these seem to be the thing

just now, a slight amusement.



do you like family language,

private jokes, stuff that

no one else gets?



some people do, and have

ordered  12 pieces water animal

small figure toy, colourful

crocodile A12 from china,

via ebay.



as yet there is no photograph.



sbm.

in the store room with the robes,

boxed, marked robes. some people

don’t like labels, although  it is the source,

a holding.



installed, the lady called her wierd, name calling.



the paper, the pins.



i call her mrs ciano, pleased to see her

again.



we talk, and she is company.



sbm.

in some houses no one,
presses, steams and irons,
clothes, the inevitable linen,
no more.

busy days we are pressing words,
hanging out for all to see,
to disagree.

a private place, a box, there
are some you will never see.

secrets.

sbm.

run in parallel lines, find words have no control. the lake on the other hand, padded , dark through medieval floating green. a day of shifting gravity, i wonder to slip

in gracefully,

after diving nicely

clear eyes ,

bound throat.

remember the cold ness of the day.

glow in groups of style and ease. now.

die back gracefully or be
trimmed?



sbm.

irregular, you came, your best clothes shining.   never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics.   the kindness that is.



he said. machine you see.   glass reflecting.            slowly it starts repeating.   the walls of differing colours.  we have the dvds.                                          on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.



back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we  amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones,            maths divides and decimates others.



1.2



repeating.



sbm.

outside, the out building  

we talked of  the war, swallows overhead.  



avoided the cockerel neatly on the lawn,

admired the rhubard flowering,

a dunkirk conversation,while sun shone.



even small boys mourn  commentary

repeated, the small days of their lives.



they were brave men,

it is a good exhibition.



sbm.