will you watch the world treading.
water floats my heart high, reflected red
below, sky above.
will you hold me up when i am failing, no
longer floating . will you play soft music
that we are in this together.meanwhile shall
we keep swimming
yet we have learned to swim
steadily. wet, we wonder and count.
i wonder if it still works for me despite
the cold, the older body. they say i shall
be beach ready.
i do not think that now applies. i have
two nice bathing costumes.
the shop was closed. the window;
the fifties’ kitchen, red and cream,
as on an antiques show.
book of laundry planted there,
as if they knew, I wanted it.
to read the rules, regulations,
soaps and sudsy flakes.
dream of singeing smells
of ironing, gas filled machine,
the one plugged into the light,
back then, green road.
boiling the whites furiously,
steamed the kitchen.
copper stick bleached
I could dream an eternity,
to learn the mastery
so i got home,and the wind yesterday has blown some of the leaves away….
taken the holly wreath down there and surprised to find I was crying.
( ah when you are under the weather things get to you……)
it will be nice to see you. the early days are hard especially this time of year.
your hat has turned into quite a project. i took it to mill to get darning wool,and it was pointed out that lots of the holes are indeed eyelets, and what a splendid hat it is.
also spoke of leaf bags and she said that if one have had the bags a while they will start to degrade…..
how much needs mending?
do you listen as i do?
having moved the car up the lane
back wards ready for.
the day. started well unlike
wait for the bird song , radio three.
eight thirty. sunday bells,
in the garden.
listen to the bird song.
you are younger than i ; stride out quickly.
it is my birthday walk down the estuary. it
is good to hit the sunny patch and hear
the bird call.
a cold day, november. we decide to
you mention that we had come far, it seems
that you are walking faster.
or am i lagging behind. now.
there are no photographs.
do not emblame your heart nor fear
that this is spelled. do not be afraid
that this will hurt you, for it will pass.
it is a romant
ic thing, a memory in a
is this the final drop, slowly. not the white
wind blown kind that raises spirits. this
is due to a colder day, early morning five
maybe this or a lack of adrenaline caused
it, the coming together of years which
shadows of birds. dust motes in air.
is this the final drop?
a story nonetheless, as are others. i prefer tintin
with snowy a dog. this year you have not told me,
confided. i have the little things that could mean
not about money, more about family. it may
be time you told them.
it is time to regrade
it is that time of year,
it comes and goes
in waves they say.
unannounced, this is the memory,
physical and mental,
if that word is is politically allowed
these days. in disorder, subconcious,
tide rising , lifting scum .
once realised, that it is time
again, settle back in to the season.
be known that i cannot keep things alive,
i have no power, no means of identification.