defines the mass, not the counting.

weight of notes, concerned her, no

looking up, she slightly apologised, nearly,

I went outside to the cash machine,

where she probably wanted me to be, really.

then buttons, joy to spend the day working,

styles and colours.

i do like the feel , 50 grammes each time.

the comment on tedium, returned with memories

of grandmas box, phobias, trouser buttons,

linen with shanks.

I have found the buttonhole scissors.

sbm.

there were no chives, so we hunted for ferns.

they are everywhere here, we wanted something

in particular, me with my green trowel, gardening

apron.

she was cominng up the lane, head down,

i waited. a steep slope.

on looking up she smiled, and chatted a while.

did you know him? she asked, told me he had

died suddenly.

she went on her way, she has moved house

you know.

we went on looking for a fern, and

found one.

sbm

envy the rural living.

make some.

walk the dunes
each day,
know the places,
to stop,
where berries grow.

where the photograph tree
knows,
what lays beneath.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.

then in mine, in honour
walk the place in mind.

sbm.

i said it were a lovely day, i did not mean the weather.

i talk about the feeling, the mood that did not change, all day,

little tasks that please. planting chives in treacle tins, ironing pyjama pants,

and cotton handkerchiefs.

he warned me the rain would come, and when it did

heavy, we tucked in tight here, enyoyed the darker

green.

then, the rain will stop.

sbm.

yes, we bought them.

pale green hooks,

for the greenhouse

walls. it is wooden you know.

i will hang the panamas up,

ready for hot weather, and for

effect.

we arrived in town early, waited

outside until she opened.

had seen them before, yet too

ill to decide.

we used those screws that had

been covered white some how,

seemed to suit the task.

we would continue the painting,

yet wake to rain.

sbm.

that amaze and delight,

the

abundance of colour,

plants, perfume of history.

it is the sounds among us, the

peering into the poem. it

is the gathering streams

that swell and please.

home grown veg,

then pause to watch

the tadpoles, insects, all

small creatures delight.

it is a large garden.

sbm.

can be a difficulty, having

to say that we do not know.

that we have to count, check,

count again.

that we get distracted, disturbed,

by other matters, come back,

miscount.

it is not some thing we can google,

so we have lists, lines and rulers.

when all is done, we sign and date

the work away.

then start again.

sbm.