the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with
it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
honest work, for mending.
today is hallow e’en
your birthday at the zoo.
we were at the national
library of wales, aberystwyth.
high ceilings, automatic doors.
trod carefully the red carpet,
saw the landscapes quiety.
film maker in residence.
webmakers in conference.
tape tied book, reminds
me, silent face a memory.
i will return to the
national library of wales,
no photos allowed.
met a friend for lunch and tea?
done the wrapping, sticking
and packing, most work has gone,
some has been hung, so i am left
with paper and bits below, new work
the bottles are up for sale, and
am drawing an erasure with all
have you seen my writing site?
yes, we had kippers on toast, tasty.
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.
he has no knowledge of twigs,
his mother had the secret,
as do i.
he has the knowledge of acting,
it was quite a performance,
as they were the same
no photos allowed.
in paper, cutting,
bleeding the lead
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
while gavin bryars plays
on and on
jesu’s blolod never failed him yet,
unlike the titanic,
it was not the centre
of the universe.
came by chance.
i think you will
find it is sir.
it is the little things
that make it so.
the tears of all my life,
the colour of the day..
he says vehicle where others say car,
he avoids the paparazzi,
he likes the same twigs.
autumn apples, gone from
the tree, a few this year.
coxes then , singly in the florist,
basketed among the flowers.
lunch at 20p, rattle the pips
to make sure. slice neatly white,while
watching the wind strip the leaves.
this is an autumn apple. break time
in the staff room. only the pips are left.
to grow again.
the line cut through, yet the photograph
cannot take or make a true image
of the situation. i repeat the question
no answer can ever come, now
brymbo man. some things we
shall never know, never show.
so we move on to find small treasures,
tiny birds frozen in time, dice to find a future,
to find a friend that has always been
i shall write of brawn.