Monthly Archives: January 2015

. such a pretty place .

you can see the mountain, the old school.

it is quite hidden, you will need directions.

up the lane then there it is, all period and

bibelows. all wisdom and friendship.

this is a town , where women

meet in friendship, help each other.

where small things and dainty, give pleasure.

this is a small place, a small life, a pretty place.

this is dolgellau.



. batteries .

old spelling, the old book,

pure poetry.

double negatives are very positve

they say, so why change it.

why look to the land to find

boredom, when everything

is so interesting, if you let it.

why criticise all the while, while all the while

your battery runs down.

i think of my mother. she was not all well.



. casting on .

the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.

nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.

the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are

wool gatherers.



. bath time .

as if you had never left.

it is all much the same, yet much is broken.

shall we stick it, glue it

back into place?

will the cat shed fluff where we have cleaned


things move on nicely, new horizons, yet

some times bathing, it feels

that you never left.

warm flannels soothe.



. the lay in .

how can it be a lay in, when we wake at five,

then up at six with the dog, to snuffle the garden.

did you see the sickle moon, means rain

some say.

how can it be a lay in, when you sit writing,

an hour with tea. believe me for this house,

it is.

being a postman for thirty years, he rarely

had a lay in either.




. the last boat .

four boats were sent. all much the same,
all differing,

oars to row.

a cross to bear.

three left, one remains.

the last boat.

in depth we drown.



. the main thing .

is probably that there is none, maybe.

is all a mixture, some feel important,

others may seem like minor details,

yet part of that whole, that make us, makes

a life.

a small life maybe, yet some of those things

will be remembered.



. 12.1 .

softly the curtain drapes,

arranged carefully, revered in mirrors.

they do say it is an antique french lace

panel. pretty with a pattern, bows

and flowers. scalloped edges.

sits in the lamp light perfectly,

like some thing in a magazine.

country living.

wood windows, the wind got through

last night. the fabric moved




stiff little finger

a neighbour came, to ask about his dog.
about going to kent, spoke of an exhibition
in berlin.

how they had photographs of the streets
where they hung people in that war,
the second world war, from lamp posts
in berlin.

he stayed a long time, looking,
in berlin.

there is a trailer of a film, to be shown,
here on tv.

it has waited many years.

night will fall.




have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.

words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly


i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.

you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.