Monthly Archives: March 2015

little garden

the frost came on the field

as the light failed. later

it warmed again.

it is a small garden,

that creates conversation,

hints at a deeper soul.

why mark your face with signs

and colours, look straight on.

look at the pleasure of a little garden.



. is it a moth .

or did you mean mouth.

did you mean you do not like me,

like my garden, i do not understand.

i wrote moth, yet misunderstood,

maybe a typo, yu are good at those,

and miss spellings.

is it because fingers fly, that

we think of the content, not the making.

time is the essence, while

moths stay quiet.



the comfort

not that one is tired or needing rest.

this is words on the biblical sort.

do you think now, or simply move

on , repeating?

the installation is changed, the description

is many. these are the same twigs.




yesterday i wrote of blood

i wrote of blood, yet did not share it much.

you may think we share our hidden thoughts,

yet some remain. it is a pretty day, with a light frost

and stories of the northern lights.

we walked a while yesterday,

he was visiting his sister.

i came home, fingers bled.




i had suggested you look for

mrs ciano, take the road

through mochdre, after


i saw ann there …..

note the hardly pollarded trees

along the way, the straight

bit before the roundabout.

in the old building, now engedi

mrs ciano lays with bloodied

bandages, pins to save a life.

the blood is mine.

google the words that distress.


mattress protector

smoothing the wrinkles i think

of another time. how reasonably

priced they are, such a usefull item,

to protect the bed.

those that sleep there can

rest in the knowledge that

all is well covered, there will be

no shame, no hardship.

remember the days of rolling


old one down the stairs, tying

with ineffective string to await

the council collection.

reorder the thing, much better

now to protect your assets.

i tuck in the corners, and remember

that this is monday.




the old blanket is new,
a find from brynkir mill,

the new blanket is old,
have had it a while.

“I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

pinc, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

pinc is welsh for pink”