winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.

sing in silence and simplicity.

sing for those in remembrance .

dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.

one voice breaks.

dark winter.

sbm

carrying the book, gently,
i find that jesus
is off the wall again.

breeze from the doors
blows him and cobwebbed minds
away,
as i write the small book,
on black keys of words.

gentle here this morning,
sun dreams in,
quiet in all the rooms,
and arms held high,
i come into the morning,
with string and sealing wax.
sbm.

there is a need to pace about, wave the paper,

move the arms. need to pause and counter

act. if this reading thing will work.

maybe moving eliminates the standing still,

precisely that leads to a self concious pose.

the need to read is ready. rehearsals held each day

focus on the oak tree.

alongside reading then, is a little light excercise

plus a method of solidarity.

sbm.

there is plenty of time to walk from town,

to give an opinion whenever requested.

there is time to talk, and receive gifts. make

time to buy some ready. it has been said before

that these are falling days. look at the wild seeds

and know that as splendid as you are, that

you are one of many.

there is still time.

sbm.

it is often the way, that we drift,

part company . return again

to our root.

not always where we think

it is, want it to be.

yet it is home.

sbm.

it was not written early,

there was the bed to change, the washing to dry,

the neighbour’s dog. there were thoughts, yet

they were forgotten in the medly of chores.

it is written later, with coffee, the cat full of

cream.

it is a cold and frosty start, lower degrees

in edinburgh.

the sun is shining, birds fly up.

sbm.

it is a small room full of gifts

now.

wrapped in plain paper, tied with string

or cotton, held with pins.

we have a water heater, we have family

and friends.

sbm.

the gift. from the interior, petr borkovec translated.

ten years. each day one is read out loud, for all to hear,

though no one is here.

page is marked, label from the cushion where she sat,

sticking out.

why not practice reading?

no one is worried how it sounds.

no one is here.

sbm.

may be we have not written

anything today , or maybe

we have.

just not on paper or type, yet

in our minds with eyes and ears,

the smell of smoke and coldness.

it maybe we played the words

in arrangements, with feeling.

longing to walk, having to work.

the garden changes, and it may

be, that we have written this.

sbm.

little cardboard houses suck in the rain.

disintegrate.

they flee and we should

integrate.

some of us have kindness, some

have tiny cardboard houses.

she knows, she saw it in the back

bedroom.

outside a helicopter flew by the mountain,

trees came down, she heard the chain saw.

it is raining again.

sbm.