there are a few, those who should tidy,

those who pump and clear, those who

investigate.



water beetles float their legs, paddle

the river, dimpling surface. hang on

the bridge , warming back and watch.

water men wear high visibility, while

the beetle shines black.



we have cut the paths

and planted bluebells.

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

better. or worse?


so lets  be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.


she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.


there is a lot going on.

the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

:: museum ::
i found,
perfumed , decked with
statues and sympathetic leaflets
to no avail.

i saw the people here.

studio, still, paintings.

i saw the artist there.

the museum, past
locked behind glass,
and computerised screens,
swimming in light.

i saw the man here.

the man too tall,
so they bended him wholly
to fit,
as they did the ladies waist,
to suit the time, and hat.

i saw my friends there.

the bus, crowded chatter,
a quiet place,
to watch as film

much time to think,

i saw myself there

the window steamed
reflected way, the day.

who do i see there,
today

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.

crows

clack

their

platitudes.

every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.

let us look at things, differently.
often, we do things, no one ever sees.
that is you and me. two of us
dancing on the sand.

it came
and went,
quickly.

adrift, will the sky at last explode, or will this hate

continue pointlessly, for  thousand thousands years.

numbers that cannot describe each particle of pain.

avoid them if you can, use other roads

then one day

the flags will find you.



turn & there

before you, before you

the flags have found you.



yellow, nodding, reminding.



the flags have found me.

it is a headstone

in the graveyard

out back.

i think it is a wreath.



the circle turns.

there is a house in the middle of the hill.



while those folk run up and down the road early

others in town wear black.

saw you laying on the sand, winded. no heart marks left.

i ask if you will die in the sun so strong.



you did not answer. the tide was out.



it did not feel hot yesterday,

windy maybe and i got burned.



i watched the sea swell

and ebb.



i returned you had not moved, sand stuck, flies came.



i could no longer see through you

you, beauty.



later that day an adder passed by on the path.

i wonder if you are known as bill like he was.



you talked about your creator and bill was mine,

& my mum.



i have talked about them before.



i feel that nature was mainly mine, not love nor purpose

as far as i can tell.



you said i listened and so i did, about life and war , power and politics

and i was sad.



sad when you mentioned the first  and then the second war. cried inside

when you talked about the ****** bombs on japan.



you suggested our histories william, while i was listening  and  you shook my hand

on the width of the old stones walls.



where i live.



i understand your faith  by bike abroad, and when asked if i believe

in our ressurection and the life to come,

i said no.



i read the bible. past tense.





little folk you said you like, i ask if you mean faeries and find you spoke of the ordinary

as do i.





i knew things would work out while i waited for the bus.



later that day i studied the timetables.

brock.



the badger was dead by the side

of the road.





walking,

i passed the other side.





returning on that side i stopped to look.



it did not smell.



it was just dead.



brock.

above

tiny little bird

holding one seed.



the trees were dead along the road.



some one sings.



the wren.

i found you stranded.



held you , hugged you.



felt the weight of your body.



felt your fin.



there.



i took you to the water

and lay there with you



hoping it would save your life.

these are the longer days, lighter days, wood pile growing, apple wood, colours of joy. believe in the world, that you can spell first time. be proud as you point out where you live, at all there is.

they are asking in the village if the pub is open yet.

i question  have  they called by to ask?



they are asking in the village if the pub serves food.

have they popped in to ask &  to see the menu?



they are saying in the village that the front needs tidying

as does the car park.



i ask the folk in the village if they will tidy their own place

and  to be glad the pub is open again.



i called in to a lovely guided tour and a warm welcome.



let us not be so critical. tyn y groes.

yes i did.



each spring

before easter came

she bought me a new cotton dress in m&s.



st margaret.



a bigger size

taken up, tucked in with

room for growth.



the next year it was second best for school

taken down , let out

and fading in the summer holidays.



the jackets were my brothers.

you make speeches, you rally while i remember my mother.

dermott.jpg

notes:-

q.
and the little ‘blue bag’ of whitener?


a.


mum did not use those, the cost i expect. gran did though .i remember it in her scullery. i have one for remembrance.

thought it was tarmacadam as did the passer by

who remarked upon it.



it is not mine, it is the neighbour’s

drive.



i know now it is asphalt

a stronger surface allegedly. the former surace cracked

in danger of breaking up like mine which i prefer.



more country

where flowers seed.



i know that pitch comes from a lake in trinidad

and  i like the words bitumen and tar.



i like the aroma and  stickiness to poke with sticks



set now

time stops in winter

here.



we find it manageably quiet.



today we drives to conwy busy

with people making holidays

is lovely.



yet i cannot find it easy.



i buys the trousers i have wanted for such a long time

from the pound rail.



look at cakes as is my hobby.



talk about angels and return home.



quiet.

apart from the men laying  tarmacadam opposite.



it smells nice as does the creosote from yesterday.



while the music plays softly.

saw it sailing by

at the night watch

clouds arranged dramatic.

let it go,

oh let it go,

let it sail free

there on the road ahead.

looking toward me with dead eyes.

mouth open.



i could not stop

nor swerve

for sunday traffic.



slowing i gently made sure the body

was not touched by wheels.



straddling.



as did the car behind

me.



after i stopped to post a letter

and stayed a while to look

at the fields around

me.

ran out yesterday

lost you completely with the pattern in the sky

the leaves on the oak

on the mountain.       i lost you





you left the group

took off and flew



flight was not sustained

hovering over past demeanours

faltered

landed carefully



in disappointment hugging

affirming it did not matter

i am travelling to the end of the world

with you.



all.



unless we stop to

start again.



unless we travel more careful



we shall see

blackened lakes.



kissing the ancestors, hugging the memories presently.



now



the will of the people over rides that of the mystery.



throwing all into
misalignment

we noticed it that day and found it omninous.

february 2019

the sea is quiet as we have never seen it

sun as hot as it gets

like summer



they gloried in it

the bathers

the media



we watched



while the ice melted.

i saw you fallen

&

photographed you



took you to be stitched.





yet i could not save you

nor

any of you.



you are a metaphor for death.





these

old photographs spur us on

to
care and treasure,

to

sweep and clean.



i keep yours by the stairs

to remind

that if you could leave us

so can anyone.



so

having written of the hour,

move on when all seems lost.



the days remain

timeless.

it takes time and patience to be  brave;

to face the consequences, to be         so

bold.



the calculations are seven

what is in that bag in the car?

you mean the brown paper bag from the bakers?

yes.

well there are his clean pants and his socks.

and

the leaflet about the manchester ship canal

you wanted.

also is a light bulb.

do you remember the electrician advised her of the peculiar property

of bulbs, well

she gave me a bag of the discarded ones

which all worked.

anyhow, one is a small ***** in and does not fit my lights here.

it will do for the light in my bedroom at yours.

thankyou. i will put it in the bedside drawer.

yes. that is what i thought too.

i hope you get to go on the manchester

ship canal.

you kept going while i was away even during storms

real grit

i am back as you can tell

will settle in a few days



7.21 home

lots to do

i briefly say that
i travelled to southport
then the manchester ship canal
then manchester town

i enjoyed it
much happened

much to do
to regroup
and tidy
up

your poor legs
oh!

a photo

oh!

oil pond mirrors the darkness the november

day                  sun draws white against the grey

this       leaf  lays on earth

there is no god

not hungry nor otherwise



you look at me straight and ask the past

and briefly I say & say there is no god



you did not smile nor shout you are the deadest thing

dead down .              no smiling  despite birds gone  by



on greasy wings                       .i remember your look

your face

drawn grey as mourning doves

that remind

for me there is no god

will watch the film on perception tomorrow alongside
another. red & white.  they say it will change my life.

meanwhile i **** boxes.

said old people fold notes
&
i felt insulted.

she said it bothered her a lot
when she counted them.

we should keep them flat
&
others may agree

who defines the different
level of thought


is there a manual
with charts and graphs


a litmus test to testify
that the thought got tangled

the back road was
littered, rather blustery.

today
we have a darker day

do not fret, i know you worry, i will paint it over in the spring.

it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that.

seems there may be some connection
some call it a trigger.


some things leave us cold and wondering

hope to revert to an earlier
idea of smudge and carbonate
james


you see
there is no control
only that we think we have
which is probably all imagined

hesitate again
look down

regret my first sentence
now

maybe will say it some other time
now

you would love it she said,

no dressing up required, nothing fancy.


then showed me photos  of the mandatory

gala evening

all wearing glittery stuff

bought on vinted.


am not fancy, me.

wrote a continental seven automatically

as always

then afterwards wondered if it may

be mistaken for a four.



things turned out fine

and the next day

did not get blown off the bridge.



high winds.

a pinky glow

she said that it was the coldest night for years

and I forget how many

a storm came yesterday dark and loud  the landscape veiled
awash a while
black things fade and all is grey

win or lose hedge your edge
write of parlay

spoke to others yesterday about
banning the word coping as a negative
thing, said with sympathy
head to one side.

it feels a frail word and does not apply

comes a differing hue
with duck egg blue


the ironmongers in town
at one seventy nine


we can walk there and back or there
and bus back you see


he said folk get used to anything

i thinks it’s a mouse in the bathroom

moving the old soap into odd places

and leaving bits about

for the cleaner to sweep.

this morning early we pinned that soap onto the bath board

time is limited these days.
those one admired in youth
devastate us now.

can we know all things, we
only went twice ?

normal
is what you are told
it is
until
you realise
it is
not