i don’t use a teapot
but evidently many do,
and cosy up together.

they don’t squish teabags, have leaves,
and stewing on the gas ring,
like mother, reducing it to
poison on my tongue.

i like the leaves to look at,
smell, like the small packet
we used to have, paper lined
in those days.

listen to the server, who
clasping the teapot,
tells us revelations
of those who live, who divorce
and warm the ***.

new colours.

the bird landed gently

hardly there

stood steady in wonder
watched the dark bleed
across the sky

watch birds scatter

we thought about the things he
said about the tea plantations
in india
he does a big trip somewhere each each year
except last year and probably this year too

rain comes here in waves
reflecting feelings
sometimes i can smell the sea
though some miles from the shore

moving out into the landscape
differing thoughts with exercise
added


on hearing rain early
delay the start of it

from the archive.

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

..adding pink..

oh unsuitable paint you
covered lovely with no
comments as all are at
home

two clouds.


brown paper
packaging…

while she also
at her house
drew pastel clouds

.raining.

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

no one does nothing

substantial

even after all this time .

watching all the crime.

the list is long  & unbelievable,

then longer and extra unbelievable.

each day.

yet no one seems to do anything.

i says this out loud to mine &  can do nothing

substantial.

only shaking.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low
over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.
all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.
grey.

is an old fashioned thing

which can mean many things

mostly in black and white

films

recently it came up again

and was challenged

regarding the personal space and bony joints

funny bone

&

foolishness

so in the mist of memory my 15 minutes passed  without concentration and went indoors after

i have the same,
usually, i felt like
a change today.

tidy beach
soft sand and honest stones
to be fortunate here

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

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.

the anxiety failed later in the day
a more comfortable place as i
watched other peoples ways and
opinions

we saw the lights in the village

the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

shall we discuss world news

or show concern over the local road being closed.

subsidence

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.

decide which
petulant shadow hides
integrity.

honesty abounds yet the flags
will find us.

they called me a terrorist

and the others repeated it.

i only looked

and asked the way.

they welcomed those from ukraine. yet  never those with

‘yashmaks ‘

their words.

those who eat weird food and apparently this is not racist.

watching the weather
discussing the news


for news came yesterday


local

pause like in breathing

I hope you don’t mind
and that is how it started

old story remembered  from the beach
that warm afternoon while all were playing
relaxing


the hunted tried not to sleep
there
for fear of being robbed or found

the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

Shoreline would be more an exploration of the concept….shorelines more related to actual examples…..how about that?

the clouds waiting as you
say


there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff
becomes fact


a place one can recognise

there is a nice long beach and lovely views out to sea

the sea that is rising

was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry

water flows down this valley

wind blows round our houses

most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.

have a photo here of up the valley
where they used to stook the harvest

all the family out working the fields

in the evening it came cooler
for rest

the sounds
softer.


once the day is dawn, the door is open, face the sky, all
comes well some days.

enjoyed the day


ours are all late summer and autumn
in a row

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.

a challenge to describe   these trees as suggested


the gentle good,  dawel disgyn,  little time
left, nor funds for flying.

so we move forward differently once again.


.while you remain in mind.

some thing is changing here,
so slight it can hardly be
noticed.

yet it has been.  a feeling,
came with the light rain .

the quietness

all things are changing,

while in the studio a series
commenced
marching in time
across the board

at dusk the view magnetic

sometimes you know
i have no clue as to what
is occurring
here
or over there


find it challenging
and disappear

( notes on darkness) more fairy lights is all that is needed, radio music, and padding about really….

changed my status,

worked out my age

and noticed my memories are mainly places

did you find a pin there, did you pick it up and stick it?  

did you stay safe, wrap the shawl around and hold    it   close?    

   did you see my life breaking, bring me pins for mending? …

drawing the child with found fabrics
watching the marks come good, no dots
intended


yet they came
without warning

they waved and smiled

i watched the sewing
i watched the stars
the seating all arranged