it is that time of year,

it comes and goes

in waves they say.

unannounced, this is the memory,

physical and mental,

if that wordis is politically allowed

these days. in disorder, subconcious,

tide rising , lifting scum .

once realised, that it is time

again, settle back in to the season.

be known that i cannot keep things alive,

i have no power, no means of identification.

i cannot save you.

we are the living ones,

guilt and trouble feel,

this a work ongoing.

sbm.

later the day dusks, air cools,

down the back track to the lane.

there is fire in the sky,

why don’t the trees burn?

one cloud hovers, red,

one cloud .

this is a later walk,

early mornings

spent writing.

see the birds roost,

hear the last call,

black bird

this is dusk.

sbm.

we are hand writing, at the table

fire lit, radio playing. scratching

words in time, rhythm comes

naturally, birds beat the window,

cold now, little feathers hoping

for food.

we now descend into darkness,

curtain drawn into night,

november.

mistakes crossed, all can see

the errors ,the blots,that soak

the skin, the stain within.

i am hand writing.

sbm.

you know, he was at the

recycling depot out in

the rain, a sudden storm.

rescued, at no charge from

the bloke, who sheltered.

through the machine,

came clean. loved

and photographed.

he sits by the clock,

some times likes a sparkler.

sbm.

different season, extenuating

circumstance. hunger

nor poverty a reason.

look for kindness.

i saw them sweeping

the golden, leaving the

vehicle parked badly.

saw the wind change,

sky come clear.

it is mid november,

i drive the same road,

end lessly.

sbm.

requested for christmas,

it is the run up, you know.

passed the idea by him,

verdict, boring, well it was

bound to be that or, wierd.

i told him it is beautiful, that

i love richard parker and

and a classic

animated character. I gave

him the message, i found

waiting.

his message to me is

cherry pie, so i stopped in

tesco, bought one for

tea.

it is a life of pie.

sbm.

so you work hard,
one task to another.

brain race, eyes cannot
keep up, reverse turn
read again. rush on
to washing, class and
garage. be known
that all is not italian,
though you wave your
arms, flap hands while
talking.

it can be an indication
of disorder, a slight
abstraction. tasks

repeating, sleep hard

wake to find a black shape
floating.

so you work hard?

sbm.

then they will understand

in america, yet they may

not understand here.

then.

i wish i spoke welsh

a bit more than i do,

i would hear

those sweet words.

perhaps i must talk

like the others, with grammar

and etiquette all educated,

good spelling, dots and stops.

inserted.

then, i wonder, where will

be the truth in that?

sbm