i dread the cold,

and as i write the words

the fear deepens



fear the ground

will slip

and the bones

will

ache as i walk

the frozen.



fear of falling,

breaking,

and losing

the soft words

of my life

as christ the king.

we came up the back way,
from the avenue.

she did not know of the place,
she asked her friend.

down in the lower room, we saw
the empty food bank, their cases
full of treasure.

read the names, the words in latin,
heard all the questions. wondered
at the glass in blue, honored in red.

later, she entered with her father,
processed, then got married.

outside it was raining gently.

sbm.


notes:-derived from Latin, processio, from procedere, to go forth, advance, proceed

that late evening,

slip into dusk,

the last blackbird singing.


that idle if not in

gainful employment.


there are thoughts

that are randomly baleful,

or so mediocre

need reviving.


to get on with the day,

despite this deluge

is the answer?

sbm.

it is quite an obscure book,
the mouse and his child
by russell hoban, some
of you will have heard
of it.

pictures by lillian hoban,
perhaps a relative.

the photo is of r.k.narayan,
breaks a rule
so this may be deleted.

this is an installation, a
love of old things.

some members will be sad
today, and we shall
empathise.

sbm.

warm, a sudden breeze.

as you like it.

from the valleys they came,
to act, entertain, travelling
troupe.

eye to eye, interaction, plenty
of action, and oh,
the costumes all pretty
in that green place,
with a hey
and a **.

birds sang, ants crept.

we laughed, sang, danced the lane
forgetting the path.

it was, as we
like it.

sbm.

so i got home,and the wind yesterday has blown some of the leaves away….

taken the holly wreath down  there and surprised to find I was crying.
( ah when you are under the weather things get to you……)
it will be nice to see you. the early days are hard especially this time of year.
your hat has turned into quite a project. i took it to mill to get darning wool,and it was pointed out that lots of the holes are indeed eyelets, and what a splendid hat it is.
also spoke of leaf bags and she said that if one have had the bags a while they will start to degrade…..
how much needs mending?
sbm.

cross referencing, numbers,

related articles.

noted.

lists are added

pages  filed , named, ordered.

all things have a place, bottled,

pickled in stead for a hard

winter coming.

locked away in time,

discarded.

retained  specially in mind.

he is a librarian.

sbm.

cut deep,   while others are sleeping.

we tread the way, from here to there,

leaving a trail.             you may follow.

cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.

step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,

cookers. step that way

plum blossom.

nothng is straight, nothing planned.

later we watched chelsea .

sbm.

this  morning they prayed

for those at sea.



the snail has been wandering,

silver trailed the mat

and hallway, escaping rain,

and wondrous sundries.



there is a calmness

a tiny red scooter.



we talked of loss,

they often understood.

sometimes they didn’t

and forgot the apostrophe.



sbm

maybe not such a good idea,
it may feel fenced in, surrounded.

yet we lean on it, dicuss the time of day,
avoiding price on fish.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of burying. he borrows electricity
a while, while i tidy up, hang out washing.

i miss my company,  went out walking.

no one came this time.

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.

5 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.

* featured in ‘Estuary’ a confluence of art and poetry.

Edited by Agnes Marton and Harriette Lawler.

Saboteur Award in the Best Mixed Anthology category

or did you mean mouth.


did you mean you do not like me,

like my garden, i do not understand.


i wrote moth, yet misunderstood,

maybe a typo, yu are good at those,

and miss spellings.


is it because fingers fly, that

we think of the content, not the making.

time is the essence, while

moths stay quiet.

sbm.

we write about numbers,

yet neither of us

remember 21.



we could use correspondence

cards, sold in packs of 6,

with a little logo at the top.



we email, she is norther now.

yesterday went quietly,

we walked to arthur’s stone, saw the wren,

then, came back again.

sbm

used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.

qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
collected.

salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.

i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.

rummer godden.

sbm.

i have a book.



i thought the light was strange,

white glancing the grass,

cut now, buttercups gone.



he spent three days cutting,

the dog long side.    sleeping.



this morning, we have

frost in may.



the book is in the back room.



sbm.

while i was gardening this morning,

the voice in my head said ‘ten years

ago, you had just died’.



the other voice replied,

‘ and you are still alive..’



sbm.

black topics.

cause and effects,
the butterfly’s wing.

so here on the night watch,
all is quiet , no birds sing.

touched by the small thing,
softly, we drew together,
with words, and gestures
in air, in mind.

touched by the old things
i draw and weave
the ways of night.

upload the black heart,
later.

i write, edit, delete.
words here,
you cannot see,
do they leave a trace,
tell me.

do you sense their meaning,
and the rhyme,
are there codes
between the lines.

is there something
in words not said,
or is it here,
as clear,
as day.

when it comes..



sbm.

have come from london, to
stay a while. i remember you
brymbo man.

profanities in town caused
ears to bleed, and where it was
a market town, now it all all
charity and coffee shops. places

change, while the egyptian things
remain so fine.

we gasped at the empty space.

sbm.

will not do, really,
it may have to be wood,
from ikea
after all.

he made do with cardboard
boxes, sticky tape
for sound,
another room.

i have news of mrs ciano,
looking well, in the old hotel.

i cannot get there
to see her.

history.

sbm.

tea time. soaked
through.

hours, wandering the lanes,
finding the shore,
my independance.

watching the silversmith,
the birds sing, water

logged, lost, happy
in the knowing.

chocolate egg,
on return.

sbm.

light catches, water clears,
we stood at the bridge
and looked, all of us.

men in suits came, stood
quiety, watched the water
clear.

some left after, went back
to there usual lives. the otter
stays in his place.

clear water.

sbm.

storm predicted, wind swept,
the visitors came, to report
the leak was dripping
on the soap and mothth.

my bath room.

it has been a week of water,
seeping the cellar, blowing
the window wide, wreaking
repairs.

the soap was laid gently,
a radiator, pears.

the mothth on a cottin flannel
to air.

they both dried, thanks
to my visitor.

I stayed home all day.

sbm.

the evidence is here.



the water boatmen, long tailed

****, the state of the tide,

other misdemeanors.



i dreamed of japan, woke

assunder, messages

broke.



i made a bottle, then

the witnesses came.



it was quiet day in the studio.





sbm.

while all around is breaking,
hold on to the inner core,
strong centre that helps us dance,
strictly.

remember unwritten rules of
etiquette renumbering the you,
after the queue. take your turn.

wait in line, it will turn up in
the lower drawer,
sleep on it like the cat.

today will draw the shoes
for erasure and carry on regardless.





the copper beech is leafless now.

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.

it is all here, if you look for it.


we all went to the castle

to say our piece, in pieces,

some of peace and blessed love,

other words, sheer beauty in light

projected.



i said my peace, hugged,

i walked to see the garden finches,

caged.



it is all here,

if you look.



sbm.

yes in the summer the tourists come from the coed y brenin trail, they do not have bells

i buy my wood from the farmers’ supplies , it smells good

i have coal too i like a fire, it sounds nice. it is company
sbm.

he says it is the word.

they will remember.

i will remember them all,
tidy, kind, white table cloths,
napkins, the favourite
picture.

i will remember you,
work out your age
every year. the wind blows.

all beautiful faces. the friends.

sbm.

maybe connections are missed

the link dismissed.





metaphors faint as my flimsy

whispers



symbols



do you deny me peace?



perhaps you utter the words

constantly?



look closely





sbm.

soft stuff wool
unless is tapestry,
lasts a life time.

they say.

knitted, it needs
flattening, pinning
in squares.

choosing
carefully, pearl headed
fit for the task,
we pin
uncontrollably,
obsessively,
blotting out bullies
and other unecessary
items.

it is the wrong size.

some seek perfection.

sbm

the installation.

an audience of two,
one helper, five minutes.

in multiples of ten, each
one six sticky fixers.

all about numbers,
until equipment depleted
there was a break in the high street.

tourists remark that
this is a beautiful place.

wonderland.

sbm.

hot fitful evening.
wine and itching skins.

enigmatic man. again continued
the interview. good teeth, skin aging well
despite the sun.

he answered questions
beautifully, mysteriously sayng,
that he could say nothing
about most things.

he may have been
a spy, for the cia.

it is the royal welsh
tomorrow.

sbm

wrap the house around you,

then                            leave it.



out into the only world you

know.



anxiety comes with           the

unfamiliar.



they call down the chimney.



reminding us that some things



stay the same.



sbm.

the bikes are moved, down to the old
pigstye, by the toilet.

plenty of room, once
it was tidied.

shed was rummaged, everything
put in line, most things
remembered.

few things dumped, while others are washed
and ironed.

slowly, there may be room for the piano.

visitors came, talked of art and signatures.

they did not know the shed is tidy now.

sbm.

except when we are not, except
when we forget. or we are not
notified.

there are lists and diaries, notes
and reminders, days set aside for certain
tasks. it has to be done, when
there is only one
to do it.

yet, oh the shame, the horror
if we miss a trick, or lose the
page.

eventually we will know,
that none of it matters.

even though it all does.

now.

sbm.

( prompted by 52.60. )

i have written of them before,
now in code and symbol, i regard,

that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence,
that familiarity does not always mean
contempt , yet continuity.

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

twigs.

sbm.

as none were made. no brawn
to be spoken of today.

along the coast to aeron,
aberaeron, to chase the ghost,
look out to sea.

gone now, ragged curtains hang.

***** windows.

more dice take us,
scissors hang in corners,
to cut and paste
the dogged words of life.

chant the twisted trees
of chancery, note the roots.

no comments found.

sbm.

it is the manual of scores
and your original ideas
amongst the other tasks
today.

today.

today i hand write
to swansea with
embellishments
of my own choice,
unless i get
bogged mentally.

if the latter is the case,
we shall walk and
eat blackberries.

sometimes i get stuck to the protection.

sbm.

is against thee , or for thee. we are all individuals.



he said.



i present thee a truth,                         you see a lie.



look to history.



so i shall make a case, produce the evidence.



medical notes, broken glass. we cannot find

the gun.



christine.



sbm.

demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the  words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is  a small hope to always return home.
sbm.

during the day, sun shining,

is this spring, or summer

now? clearing the debris,

painting it white.

birds gather, as the

radio plays.

we dance in the greenhouse.

sbm.

second time the title .
we quote some numbers, unmentionable
for some will snigger. we need a double
throw to get out of jail, move forward,
one dice. the dayword was impossible.

on reflection, it is all  satisfactory, we
shall buy the board, aquire another throw.

it will be waiting in the games room.

the hydro hotel.

sbm.

what about this list,

to do it before you die,

well as she said, you probably

can’t do it after. some may disagree -

another belief. we try not to judge,

yet that  bucket was not worth

five pound, so i offered two.

old,  too enamoured to be

used for rhubarb.

i shall search for another.

there is an old galvanised bath

in the garden.

sbm.

saving the year.

ants on the bridge,
words on the air.

the quiet palace
swarming.

look to the garden,
see the change in the year.

sbm.

balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite

fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.



have done this a while, got the rhythm,

the style of dressage and deportment

for one of our station.



i don’t have a badge, so

look with confidence, courage

so they know.               i quickly

fold tidily, imagine i am japanese

and check my hips in the showroom mirror.



i work on sundays, except

when i go on thursday.



so being monday, now

i change the bed.



carry on with the domestics.



sbm.

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.



.

is written, is said, may be sung,
another day. a smudge is all it takes
to start.

once started move on. it may be the wrong
item, it is, just, what it is now, a label.

it rained most of the day ,the roof leaked.

a friend returned that evening.

i will draw the mermaid, with a fish.

sbm

alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

sbm.

there are enough bell jars now,

there are five in differing stances,

to protect, delight, and make



the things look reasonable.



there are enough bottles,

stuffed with stuff,

to fill the cabinet,

to hide in rooms.



rooms that are grand

beyond your life, protected.



enough rag is gathered,

so all is needed

are labels.



and lists.



sbm.

can be a difficulty, having

to say that we do not know.

that we have to count, check,

count again.

that we get distracted, disturbed,

by other matters, come back,

miscount.

it is not some thing we can google,

so we have lists, lines and rulers.

when all is done, we sign and date

the work away.

then start again.

sbm.