Monthly Archives: November 2014

. seven thirty .

there is a skid mark in the mud,

where i moved the car early,

saw the mist rising on the river.

hear the black crow bird call .

home.

it is raining again today,

a worry when some work out doors.

i leave here early this

morning.

the academy.

sbm.

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. self catering .

have missed it this year, plans never came together,

we meant to go together. i have stayed hotel, while

this is nice, have missed the freedom of the

self catering stay.

so absent from work a while, at home, i pretend

it is a self catering cottage, which of course

it is.

i play, and rest, eat little good things, watch

films till late, and have unsucessful laying in.

if i was overly concerned with cost, of course

is cheaper.

we lit the fire the first time this year.

burned your correspondence.

sbm.

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.the upper room .

ancient place, much posting, signs

for care, letters of fortitude and sadness.

face to the wall.

chair to the wall, sit slightly unbalanced

read, the language, sentences there.

this one wrote it. wilfred owen.

oswestry heritage.

sbm.

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. oswald’s tree .

never fails to excite me.with all the talk of leaves

here, falling, i am interested to see another breed

of folk that love and gather.

remind me of roseberry road, the younger days.

sat in the upper room, read his letter to his mum,

about the trenches, the first world war, wished

to drown his sorrow in that bloodied mud. the floor

tilted, a scrap lay crumpled.

each room has a different door.

we left, fell the last few steps.

sbm.

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. a quiet afternoon .

a small village, mayhap a hamlet, named,

one forgets the rules with all that has happened.

domestics done, we walk over to buy two pots

of pansies, a pound for both , money for charity.

nice to be out, to see the neighbours’ houses,

to see what has changed while i have been working.

not much.

late light brings photographs, wandering the graveyard,

yew berries abound. bird bones ready to gather, to box.

i thought of your disorder.

did you leave your hat?

sbm.

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.wednesday .

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.

know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.

that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that

we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.

these are old words.

sbm.

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. it rained in the night .

i woke, heard it, yet also saw the yellow moon.
shining through.

rain is noisy on the roof at huws gray,
where we buy slate chippings and talk
of log stores for the winter.

it is made of metal.

at the ironmongers we chat, buy bulbs,
notice the chip shop is for sale, now.

they sell night lights singly, at 20 p each.

it rained on and off all day, while I worked,
then,
it rained in the night.

sbm.

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. chairs .

during the evening after tea,

we wondered who had invented the chair,

so that we can sit, so, and sew.

perhaps the rock was too hard,

nothing to support the back,

properly.

period drama would be

oddly different without the chair.

the conversation moved on to

pumpkins, these days, and

noises made by porcupines.

seems Barry went to see the

capybara too.

sbm.

a

. some mornings .

struggle with the words,

tear wrappers back to reveal

the chewy pink, or bitter. bitter

enought to split your head, the

packing says.

all gets too sickly, too sad,

when small boy agrees

it is good to hear birds sing.

sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras

in the capybara house.

this is quite relaxing.

sbm.

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. photo a day .

is a challenge, with a little

subject every day. for fun.

scour the house, the landscape,

look for shadows, those that may

like you, even though it does not

matter.

i dreamed i cried, i dreamed i

missed him still.

sbm.

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