Monthly Archives: December 2015

bunting works

it is a profound thing,

the paper the string.

the wind blows, all is safe inside,

somewhat dry mainly. so we

place the bunting well.

she had rushed home, she

left the fish in the oven.

this is not a metaphor.

sbm.

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it is a little thing

she gave me this. a new one.

it will not replace the old one,

yet will be loved.

as i loved you, and when i lost you,

kept it private, still do.

i miss you.

this is another gift.

sbm.

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the plate

the plate is lovely, slightly fade

into other places, where bears ride

bicycles, where no one eats brown food,

no more.

it is a gift to know what the other

likes, and to like it yourself. the wind

blew through our house, while the sky

turned dark.

the plate is larger than usual.

sbm.

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the story of cows

the bootlace came loose.

bending to tie, see the cow

standing.

the first lane to pentre.

then

the farmer , the calf.

all greet each other

then skip on the way.

some to the field, one down the back lane,

where water flows, where wild things grow.

it feels needed while sun shines, to see

all these things.

sbm

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nose bleed 52

was possibly the turning point, that

changed a life, that emptied the cabinet.

be careful what you think, it may be horribly wrong,

then hearts will slide. so we sat in the window to watch

the world go by.

he said it was his first nose bleed, yet later found

that there had been others.

this looks like evidence.

sbm.

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the walking partner

down the back lane there are puddles,

huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.

branches blown , creaking twigs while rain

stays off a while. she is a new walking partner,

quite fast, no bother.

minds empty ,we look at each other,

at sheep a while, still moving forward.

there are some now, that do not come.

this is the back lane, still

much the same.

sbm.

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it seems worse in the dark

having learned , the days will come longer soon. the sounds

softer.

once the day is dawn, the door is open, face to the sky, all

comes well some days.

some days it does not, yet it still comes light. the falling

days end.

i have been invited to the village gathering this night.

i shall not go.

sbm.

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winter house

the honesty is still growing,

water seeps in, while small things shelter.

there is much to research, decide to believe

or not.

there are so many stories, re-enacted with

a hyphen.

there are watermarks left, to be cleaned

in the spring.

the rain will come again.

sbm.

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another friday

some can be serious, full of good intent.

i understand this one is labelled, yet

some i have met are not sure about all

this any more. a few like little things,

will be happy with pins.

did you know that angels are born with

dresses on?

oh , the powers and dominions.

sbm.

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searching for thursday

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.

searching for meaning, it may be there is none.

loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.

sbm.

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