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.

after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important

meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove

to see the fish, and met the capybara.

who was surprised? its hair all needing drawing,

nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so

quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood

alone, as did i.

the little capybara, there.

i took no photograph.

sbm.

clover round small trees.

rain spots.

high house begs to buy,
french bird house,
old linen stitched,
pinned , labelled
tied with string.

a domestic thing.

later at home.

owls perched outside.

our oak tree.

a new format, yesterday.

sbm.

probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.

we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
novel.

moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
so,
they will be placed in a box
sometime, a suitable
one found.

there is a collection now,
the falling days.

sbm.

some things are inevitable, old tea

sips badly, after all the work is done.

stains the cup if left standing,

remember the hotel, 1964,

we used to scour them especially

round the handle, then the base.

we peeled the tomatoes, and waited

for our boyfriends on the high wall outside.

the whitehall hotel. bournemouth.

sbm.

in a corner, she hopes

people will see her, talk to her.

do they understand the question,

can they spell her name?

she is not for sale really, though price

on application.

writing helps, no one will explain

the bandage, the blood and the book.

some of us love her and have ordered

another measuring stick.

sbm.