do you think you will notice them more now, my love?
it is mentioned that you may not be present next year,
that your age is wrong.
all is agreed, we plan for the future, diaries intact.
do you think you may ponder more, my love?
or simply play in the lane, laughter ringing
this autumn air.
some trees die.
surprising what you learn at work, from
carrying a heavy load. the day was slow and dark,
all day, never cheered. he told that his ancestors
were buried in wool.
his banter had been ignored till this remark.
work stopped , heard that all were
buried in wool except the plague sufferers
and the poor.
a five pound fine to those that did not comply,
the register marked affidavit, wool or naked.
it takes some reading, is in wiki, go see.
last night we slept on the
linen sheet, and overslept.
bought for my house, have reconsidered, it will be for you.
a gift, alongside other gifts. look after it.
found in a fishing shop. gentle hue, alongside
floats, and fish lures, now that is a wonderful
over the road, the water man said all looked well,
so we glanced out at the muddy building mess.
they knocked down houses and trees you know.
driving home was all autumn and bluster.
i shall buy a pink ball for the house,
note. there is no photograph.
should one be listening? it is common courtesy, after all,
yet minds designed to wander, do so, through the glass
door where the waitress hoovers, reveals her scottish descent
whilst delivering our coffee and the single biscuit each. miscounted .
one left over. no one takes it. it feels like being in a hotel, she thought.
it is old. the floor slopes nicely, warm . the chairs supportive
while the sore throat slides gradually in….
is retrospect. something to do with the war,
yet do we remember?
if it is light in the morning, then it will be
dark in the afternoon.
this is autumn, light fades, natural phenomena.
colour changes, we use the rooms, play the radio.
travel to see the mood. stay to feel the night.
this is the hour. nothing has changed.
all is changed.
it has been a while since we spoke.
even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.
some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.
it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.
i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.
even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?
it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.
all things pass.
i shall occasionally write, and never send.
all plans cease, while
other symptoms come on board.
yet think hard, while all is safe
and cosy here, others
sleep in mud.
songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life
the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,
the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white
so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe
busy these days.
fade. place into boxes.
hope the comments come shorter.
blasting . confine their fragile
outside they bleed.
a man helps another man,
there is one pin left
for comfort. and
i am no younger.
as a child i liked cottage pie
for dinner, we had at lunch time.
i had one best coat, and maybe
a raincoat, gabardine mac. in
summer white plastic mac from
i hear that many ladies have lots
of coats these days,indeed i know
yesterday i ate cottage pie at
lunch time, then bought half