get a cold, lose your appetite for cream. live on marmalade
with toast. the cat gets the cream till full, resplendent on the
radiator. the cream goes solid, the need to recycle comes clear.
all we can do for the best is throw it down the toilet.
first seen in ellesmere with period characters we felt may be best removed.
lucky to have one on my birthday with lights from a battery quite reasonably
visiting town and gallery see them there are quite a lot. more money as craft.
seems little houses are fashionable now.
as are pugs.
why will i want to or think of it
at all. in lower case.
aren’t we all complementary,
designed with different features
and ramblings, not pausing for
we live in the country ; know that
all are different, enjoy a good time
aren’t we all in this together, a
question with gritted teeth
eventualities and commas.
do not worry over things. said this
the difference could make no difference.
making the work about making the work.
knowing the cylinders are empty, you
had asked if i have heard of instagram. a relic of
how we judge by appearance. i told you that
i had an old box brownie, a clue to confuse.
it is good to talk about work that is about making
they like my badge. at mostyn.
a spidering across my face, that mooned mirrored moment.
raising from sleep dreamed , dashed my hand to move it,
sadly this morning find the remains stain, detritus with remorse.
radio news says the evacuation from aleppo is delayed.
history repeats itself.
i came trembling. looked for the cloud
from those years ago. hidden
in mist, a white wall . no birds
we are as nothing.
in this place.
i do not have an
it is a season
it may be
time to regrade
i have not written much about advent, just two things.
yet i know it is here, felt in bones; my soul. i
have no system now to believe things, yet
the reminder comes without warning. each
to my own suprise, i find that i still can cry. it
is a long time passed. they say our work , our souls
are in our chest.
it is not just me
it is family.
there is no photograph.
to explain to you who cannot see,
the cloy, the quantity of water, tasks, and other
hurts, that fit into a day. the moment
your feet slide into mud, with one word.
heard , read, imagined, the sentence dives and plays
whole, yet as days move on, flotation occurs,
buoys, slowly we face back to sea , swim on.
either that or drown.