the bikes are moved, down to the old
pigstye, by the toilet.
plenty of room, once
it was tidied.
shed was rummaged, everything
put in line, most things
few things dumped, while others are washed
slowly, there may be room for the piano.
visitors came, talked of art and signatures.
they did not know the shed is tidy now.
it is an obvious thing, yet you
were not looking.you had seen
round corners, down the well,
most places, yet in front of
you it was.
they came suddenly, i heard their
voices. we need to keep the pattern
straight, in time to the music,
later, we leaned against the post,
ate little apples, looked at
quiet all night, then suddenly, the quiet
voice sings. it is time to speak, to make
to dash the pencil hard on stone, break
the lead. erase inherited memory, genes
listened, it talks quietly, listen.
cut the paper, brace the ash, rub and smudge,
think if it had been you.
wednesday, the shops shut early.
here.there are still tourists around.
or new people. i bought some sweets,
a thimble,a packet of screws, one
chatted about face book in the mongers.
i moved here in 1993.I am an immigrant.
slow down when squirrels cross.
nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.
she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.
the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.
this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.
start again. mid september,the cloak folds around.
dark at the window, rain streams the lights, lorries
drive early. mansel davies.
does the music sound different, does it ease
more readily in autumn. i write in halls, remember
the museum, work steadily, do you understand the delight?
strange that such a simple task can bring such concentration,
pleasure after a long day before. to clarify here, i had a day
at home, working. the clocks are never right.
seems there is still some room,
an expansion, another way to think.
to think,that one can do things, often
means you can. difficult, sometimes, yes.
one step at a time, eating garden fruit
a good summer for the garden, plans ahead.
hours of pleasure.
i shall take photographs.
can be muzzy things, caused by a
sincere lack of liquidisation,
or a symptom of another particle.
substance is taken, ibruprofin, after
hunting the bags, the old bathroom cupboard,
which is tidy now. tea then, and typing, ensuring
the jaw and neck are slack, no tension.
think of montgomery, the garden, relax, and know,
that others have worse than tight head pain.
maybe this is smoke inhalation,
maybe it is nothing at all.
no hormones, no alcohol required.
bandages are useful.
grass. is not growing so much.
set off early, blades raised. birds watched.
even stopping at the tree, to taste apples,
was quicker, forty minutes.
now then, she is right, they are small.
i was told to take the little ones off,
yet could not bear to do it. my loss.
they are tiny, they are sweet.
we suck them to the core.
it is mid september.
life comes looser now.
opposite the house. is mowed
regularly, bordered with rose bay willow herb.
some say a weed, others an herb, yet it is
a useful plant, a stand together in public
space, glow in groups of style and ease.
now september, frothy beards begin to
gentle blow on air, then winter stems
i have no photograph.
to die back gracefully or be