talk about chucking it down,
we wondered what the noise
heard gwil running in , no time
to stop for logs. the cat came
rushed to the window, to take
talk about chucking it down.
there are many numbers,
most are broken, a few retained.
i have 43. crushed the others
heard the cuckoo call, louder and
louder, felt the sun, thought of africa,
from where they come.
there is a new path, around the lake,
by the power house. it may hum,
yet it is a gentle place.
we kicked about there all day.
we has an immersion, switched on for just half an hour,
we has hot water. enough for a bath. left on longer it gurgles,
all night it goes quiet, and i could bathe, clean the house,
wash the socks,
and have change left over.
a red light. while we are used to it, others may wish for better.
winter fires. the back boiler kicks in.
so tired that you could
fall gently onto soft grass
that nothing seems sensible any more,
no space exists around you?
will your legs still carry you along?
sometimes is best to stop a while,
think on the situations of others.
listen to the words of history, the stories.
then up from the lawn, to wonder.
cut deep, while others are sleeping.
we tread the way, from here to there,
leaving a trail. you may follow.
cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs.
step this way, it leads to the old apple tree,
cookers. step that way
nothng is straight, nothing planned.
later we watched chelsea .
winding wool is mindless
she said, well maybe madam,
yet look at the lovely machine,
all red and cream plastic, that
winds in a way we cannot do
look at my work which evolves
while working this and thinking.
i folded her goods tidily, packed in a
nice paper bag, said nothing
except mere politeness and niceties.
then got on with winding.