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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground,
it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we
i looked up, that does not mean i love you.
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”