2211.
have been quoted before,
holy books, those with no label.
no one reads them, tied, just for
decoration. he said it was a
statement. unopened it spoke,
of double numbers.
wept, could not read
here, now weeping cannot
know these words and cyphers.
a forbidding thing, to speak
in symbols, yet some
still do.
she said this is not the real world.
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.
would want to be here alone,
wander the books and paintings,
use resources quiety,un guarded.
yet we came together nicely to share
experience, information, cheesecake
and pastries.
black book of carmarthen on diplay
from hengwrt, a
neighbouring house.
some books are tied,
some have no labels.
there was a draught
at the national library of wales.
sbm.
how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools, take the thing then
harden it.
they say it will last a lifetime, hold its own.
tradition.
looks as if it would hold
the rain out, repell the scattered
words of cold,
and evil. a coat so heavy
it dragged us down.
there was crocheting yesterday,
with blue and softer yarn, a small ply.
a gentle thing, a memory.
sbm.
gently go forward, then gently back
recreating past deeds and misdemenours
you thought forgotten.
gently go forward knowing we are mostly
all the same, with motes not spoken of,
except disorder.
gently it passed behind you, seen
clearly while looking for god.
gently gather autumn leaves to keep
in paper bags. these are the golden
days .
my friend.
sbm.
