much of the time is spent with this
or other things which pass the day
use the brain. remembering strong
wrapping paper in folded sheets.
i have a modern roll that tears
easily, yet now continue the theme
of recycled, flattened yet stil creased,
tied with inevitable red thread or bloody
each year in the afterwards
we would iron the paper flat
the years go round.
it is an traditional
look at the bodice.
encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.
i can visit, touch
and take photographs.
the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
comes out every year,
stored in one of the
this is neither poetic nor
we walked down the lane
to place the holly wreath.
i was given a gift . not wrapped
just given. before the winter
festival, before the anniversaries.
the gift was given
if i believed in all that i guess i would give thanks, yet give thanks anyway.
one has escaped.
maybe it was the lack of empathy,
the first sign in yellow. the others
were hidden, yet confessed deeply.
in red, the diagnosis, no doctors here,
we have common sense in blue.
understand the fear, the
need to lay and weep over all things.
legion, there are many.
interupt the day, checking.
it is all there to find, old favourites,
new, they pray for those in
peril each morning, later
from the other room streams
the sound of glass.
one battery is spent, the other
depleting rapidly. during
the run up to christmas i shall
replace and back up.
meanwhile. plugged in the
piano plays. classic fm.
i shall nip to currys after
lunch at maenan abbey.
has big lumps, i seem to remember.
i have those and small stuff too.
mother had nutty slack, mixed
with water and other stuff to keep
can you still get that these days, i had best
google, anthracite was good i feel, and those
briquettes that i thought were for
steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.
the joy of a cosy life, one could say
it is a gift, even though i paid
the same each december, advent .
the lead up. we have a memory or two.
the world goes dark, we teach and learn,
wait for light to appear,
with those albeit small birds,
we have comfort, medieval trees,
the coventry carol.
we drive in the dark.
i could have bought it,
travelled to town, spent a lot of money.
others are famous in paperback,
or hard cover, some are chaps, and other
words i do not get.
they write to me of stanzas
and i google the word effectively.
no, i did not buy it,
once again i made a gift,
they play a different tune,
yet i can still sing it. they ask
for a melody, i found
i can sing that too.
make it up generally, is
what we do here, it is
mostly acceptable, except
when it is not, yet i don’t
often hear about that.
they wish i write different,
yet i do not.
i listen to john rutter.