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 .
it is raining again today,
a worry when some work out doors.
i leave here early this
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
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
we lit the fire the first time this year.
burned your correspondence.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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
these are old words.
i woke, heard it, yet also saw the yellow moon.
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,
it rained in the night.
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,
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
struggle with the words,
tear wrappers back to reveal
the chewy pink, or bitter. bitter
enought to split your head, the
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.
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
i dreamed i cried, i dreamed i
missed him still.