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.
old spelling, the old book,
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.
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
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.
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
how can it be a lay in, when you sit writing,
an hour with tea. believe me for this house,
being a postman for thirty years, he rarely
had a lay in either.
four boats were sent. all much the same,
oars to row.
a cross to bear.
three left, one remains.
the last boat.
in depth we drown.
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 small life maybe, yet some of those things
will be remembered.
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.
wood windows, the wind got through
last night. the fabric moved
a neighbour came, to ask about his dog.
about going to kent, spoke of an exhibition
how they had photographs of the streets
where they hung people in that war,
the second world war, from lamp posts
he stayed a long time, looking,
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.