he  sat on the step in the heat,

I, sickly dozed under

the damson tree.


lizards flicked.


while in the village

below this hill

music played.


a wedding.

sbm

Image

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.

old spelling, the old book,

pure poetry.



double negatives are very positve

they say, so why change it.



why look to the land to find

boredom, when everything

is so interesting, if you let it.



why criticise all the while, while all the while

your battery runs down.



i think of my mother. she was not  at all well.



sbm.

it used to be quicker,
round the block, waving
to bob. he has a new car
now.

you should see it.

now we take photographs,
eat blackberries and wind
our mouths with damsons.

people bring chairs by the river,
we sit on logs, play fishing.

men come fishing,
ask, if we are from the village.

we say yes, think of the movies,
hitchcock, birds, & children.

we have the latter two,
we have the dog, we have


the days.

sbm.

it is nearly september.

did you say passe partout?  did you say alone  in this corner?



i have been to ireland recently, took my documents,           my bag

and passport.



it is another country.



we were away a week and on returning felt slightly low.  lower

now since the article.                the helicopter crash up the road.



can you imagine?



they were going

to ireland too. they

never got there.



(  written  with respect )



the roads are still closed,

i just drove past.      been

to buy plants.



it was a red one.



sbm.







daily post : passport

made of cloth, for bandages, curls.

ribbons as is the fashion now.



rags for bandages, cut finger, wrapped,

tied a knot.



rags rolled in the war, women who

lost their sons, their brothers, pinned.



the pins that did not mend.

rags of clothes worn in poverty,

and art.



remember the rag and bone man. some of you,

nothing wasted. i tie your gift.



sbm.

the few know how to detonate, the many don’t.

apostrophe t.



the few add bits and bobs for devastation, muliple

injuries and death. life

changing.



a few help the others, while the others suffer.



there was a picture of a bomb  in blaenau, next

to a drawing of a ****, and a passage from the bible.

hash tag.

deuteronomy.



sbm.

could count the hour,

would stay safe.



yet the feeling overcame

on passing  blind sheds,

beautiful fields.





filled with buttercups.



hide your eyes here, hide your eyes

when leaving.



suddenly i may greet you,

that feeling.



sbm.

we have spoken before.

the looms stand idle, some in store
some with recognition.

machines work less in cold,
sheds and lack of encouragement.

we worked the day with thread
and needle, only turning forward,
cutting cotton backward.

with squares we talked, of
older times,

light shed on weave,
broke the heart to bone.

days have gone, the names,
the weaves, the places.

he remains, he still has the music.

sbm.

lead us to think there is no planning,
no list of instructions, therefore no
notes on mending.

so we stick it, wipe it, cough
dificulties into craw, sliming over
the worst of it.

without the light on things look worse,
leaning over carefully, flick a switch,
listen to the news.

all things combined,
leads to variety in puddings.

sbm.

they are mending aberdovey

bridge again. i passed twice.



the service was beautiful, although

our hearts had sunk.  his music soared

as the kite flew the window.



the flies climbed the walls.



a buzzard flew to jazz.

the flies climbed the wall.



ended with the pasa doble,

while the flies continued.



i came home over dovey bridge



sbm.

defines the mass, not the counting.

weight of notes, concerned her, no

looking up, she slightly apologised, nearly,

I went outside to the cash machine,

where she probably wanted me to be, really.

then buttons,  joy to spend the day working,

styles and colours.

i do like the feel , 50 grammes each time.

the comment on tedium, returned with memories

of grandmas box, phobias, trouser buttons,

linen with shanks.

I  have found the  buttonhole scissors.

sbm.

the reluctant apprentice, trained
with brown paper and string.

the redundant book binder, left
to the world with care.   hoped

to eradicate a lack of training , gold
leaf tracing a memory. retuned eventually
through mappe mundi, national libraries
all ancient tape and frogskin.



chained.

the books are bound.

sbm.

a garden in regret yesterday before the mist cleared.



leeks in bundles while a lone robin sat her eggs, soft

in moss.



sun came, so we went up to see the churchyard cleared

ready.



a flower festival.



sea fret  in by six.      today the sky has lifted early.



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

so it is in sun shine,

early evening, window open,

dust rises.



slanted light, dog lays,

weary.



a day of small things,

slowly steadily worked.



a day of fledglings,

a tiny song.



as we rest the dust motes,

shine as gold.



remember this……..



sbm.

did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.

these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.

one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.

it is a gift.

tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a

gift.

sbm.

winding wool.



together.



sbm.

the bootlace came loose.

bending to tie, see the cow

standing.



the first lane to pentre.



then

the farmer , the calf.

all greet each other

then skip on the way.



some to the field, one down the back lane,

where water flows, where wild things grow.



it feels needed while sun shines, to see

all these things.



sbm

more than that with promises

that faded into silence.


i woke this morning the same,

a taste of autumn,

mists and biblical sheep

resting.


a new grave here,

a new grave near,

while all is growing,

there.


a cloud  hangs in the valley

sbm.

small path, a right of way,

for me, to go down the back lane.

it is all forget me nots,

i wrote of it before.

i had bought 1000 seeds, black

and tiny,

from ebay, wondered who counted

them.

he is a farmer, will strim

them soon, so i gently pulled

a plant. the ground gave easily,

moles had been tunneling.

i will forget thee not.

he is a farmer.

sbm.

talk of concrete in pretoria
thoughts on moths in wales.

there is only air between .

talk goes on all day, about the heat,
the rain and drizzle,
no thoughts on the shipping
forecast. words red, remembered.

the bird, the boy, the machine,
there is only air between.

sbm.

can be.



frightful, in snow or heavy rain,

dark the days are, the evenings darker.

forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled

minutes later, the phone kicks off.



ice is predicted,  mountains white



and jesus is reborn up the valley.



now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.



the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.



i have been a long time coming home.



sbm.

you know how you can hear me,

when i am thinking. ‘yes that is because

i came from the forest, it is quiet there,

we can hear everything’

yes.

‘where have you been all day?’



here and there and felt the air

on my cheeks.



‘ so i hope the blanket of sadness

is lifting?’



yes. thank you bear.



sbm.

once upon a time…



only once?

she asked



yes once was enough & there is hope it will not be repeated over

the evil of it all



which time?

i am sure you remember…



prayers are spoken each hour

the bell rings



once upon a time..



only once?

she asked



no, it happens all the time when folk are kind all the time



it comes in layers like a trifle pudding

yet more important than a mere dessert



prayers were spoken each hour

the bell rang



once upon a time

. the charm .


passed over by accident, the
thing occured naturally,
without clerics. without beatitude.

given by friendship, yet
piety slowly eroded.

they come now with learning,
holding large words, a different language.

the charm now gone,
perhaps they did not need it any more.

once again, it is said, that,
they speak latin.

sbm.

that was satisfying.

did i sit quietly thinking,

then place a few

things together. yes.

that was exhausting.

the star.



sbm.

it was well said.

tired of all the rags and critisms?

listen to the artist, talk of
cumbria and cul de sacs.

listen to another, who follow stars,
cellular memory.

i have been a while here, now.
it may be time to leave, and find
the other way.

sbm.

seem more gentle than others,
despite the storm.

despite the words that are lost
to sound of  winds
battering. windows rattling.

we spoke,  all comes clear
in time, with waiting, baiting
breath, fortitude, cups of tea.

they will light lanterns, burn fires
for the darkness, while some
mornings rise gently.

the third of november.

sbm.

cracked  window looks at clouds, the mountain.

ledge, dead moths stretched out in

all their softness, stunned by light.



sewn curtains stir memories, indicate

a private place to weave and mend

a dream.



here are the items, the installations,

here are the photographs i take

each day. here are the worries

placed in the cupboard, with notes,

for you to read.



sbm.

opposite the house. is mowed
regularly, bordered with rose bay willow herb.

pink.

some say a ****, others an herb, yet it is
a useful plant, a stand together in public
space, glow in groups of style and ease.

now september, frothy beards begin to
gentle blow on air, then winter stems
remain.

fireweed.

pink.

i have no photograph.

.

pink.

to die back gracefully or be
strimmed.

sbm.

felt like a sauna
or confessional. piping sounds.

we start talking,
regarding lack of reading,
concluding this
stimulates
conversation.

covering hips, as was his
want, running which is
not mine. i did not
mention any affliction.

i liked his way, his teeth,
and accompanied him
to the chemist, which
closed at 5.30.

sbm

we have been to montgomery
again. it is a pretty place, bunting
across the square, so by the open
window, with fresh scones, we talked,
listened to the quiet. narrow walls,
bricked faces. there is a church
of course for leaving useless requests
and confirming friends. it may
be that i have no photograph.

yet will add a photograph.

sbm.

the visitor came, silently,
while waiting patiently,
did not hear him.

did not hear him creep
nor hear him sleep.

yet he rose clean and early,
to work another day. patiently
i waited.

he is a working man.

sbm.

are you sleeping
cariad bach

while i watch the buryng,
the pain,
the madness,
the snowdrops.

are you sleeping,
while they hold her up.

cariad bach.

softly the curtain drapes,

arranged carefully, revered in mirrors.



they do say it is an antique french lace

panel. pretty with a pattern,  bows

and flowers. scalloped edges.



sits in the lamp light perfectly,

like some thing in a magazine.



country living.



wood windows, the wind got through

last night. the fabric moved

softly.



sbm.

looking down saw grubby fingers,
smuts from the fire, cleared early.

spit and hanky  rub the mark away,
travel regardless. may be spring
that day.

cannot read your mind, sir, nor mind
the consequences of my stain.

i have sooty marks,the head is clear.

walk the canal path, eat cheese,
and softer figs.

oh my , these are the falling days,
the days of the life.

sbm.

have you ever gone back,
that painful journey,
watching swallows dip
as if they had never been away.

staggering the stones
you may find god in
water falling.

echoing all the tears
of your life.

sbm.

remembered those at sea, as they should.



meanwhile snail trailed silver

the mat in the hall.



calm here with tiny things,

light drizzle and remembrance.



some understand the loss,

while some forgot the

apostrophe.

sbm.

i like fishmongers, see the fish
laid in ice, little eyes, so i went
in to sea. a small shop, cod one side,
ice creams the other, dog outside.

with a cushion, and bone, meat bone.

may i help you?

i should just like to look, unless
you have herring.? no, they
did not catch any this week.

then i am not a very good customer.

no, you need more training.

sbm.

:: a book of pins ::              handwritten, copied in a day.



the drawing, the written page.

i am paint and cotton

i am pins and details

codes and reasons

calm and seasons.



i am boxes, charcoal,

fires and birds.



i am hand writing.



i am the old house,

all things considered.



i am the joker, the radio,

the music.





i am four dots.



i am the folded page,

the falling face.



i am the picture, the painting,



i am the mouse, the little bird,

a monstrous woman.



i  am a word document, a picture file.



i am the pin.



sbm.

when the first line is the title,
when the content is unknown
morning in darkness as if the
sun can’t rise again.

the bulb popped and now we
have a lower light. we have an
understanding, we asked for
explaination. it came via another
route.

i live by the A470.

sbm.

you know, he was at the

recycling depot out in

the rain, a sudden storm.



rescued, at no charge from

the bloke, who sheltered.



through the machine,

came clean. loved

and photographed.



he sits by the clock,

some times likes a sparkler.



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.

there is a skid mark in the mud,

where i moved the car early,

saw the mist rising on the river.



hear the black crow bird call .



home.



it is raining again today,

a worry when some work out doors.



i leave here early this

morning.



the academy.



sbm.

watch, windows speck. days come lightly.



heavy hearts at leaving here. we remember

you. some times.



with  difficulty.

some times.



the sun shines,

some times it rains.



sometimes it looks calm when we can feel the wind.



lightly.



sbm.

is a short word in varying degrees.

a slight one, can be alleviated with
unecessary treats, parfum , curling
round in soft places.

lift the spirits with little things, be
glad it is not a more serious form
of the word.

i drove the road yesterday, it
is such a pretty place.

sbm.

there is the mark,
in the grass where
your cat sleeps, we watched
her from the window.

precious.

these are the pears on
my tree, my grass
is so green, this is
my humour, i am company.

i am your neighbour.

sbm

it is minus one outside today,

a big fire in dubai. i saw the

grave digger yesterday, i thimk

my friend is died.



they say to be happy, we are,

we stil see the pity of the world.



we cry.



she is right, we may not get what

we wish for, mainly we gets what we gets.



sbm.

:: plas mawr ::

quietly through the rooms,

feel the history

there.



touch the clothes, the linen.

read about the death plague,

rusty nails cure teeth,

communal bathing frowned

upon,  you guess

what happened there?



touch the peg beams,

teeter the stairs.



i try very hard every day,

cheese helps.



i am on the committee.



waved to bob mending his old car,

coming home..



sbm