Monthly Archives: December 2016

will you save me from drowning?

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

say

that we are in this together.meanwhile shall

we keep swimming

together?

sbm.

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i have watched you drowning

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.

sbm.

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to learn the mastery of the thing

the shop was closed. the window;

the fifties’ kitchen, red and cream,

seen

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

beyond.

I could dream an eternity,

to learn the mastery

of laundry.

sbm.

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the holly wreath

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?
sbm.
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sunday bird song

do you listen as i do?

having moved the car up the lane

back wards ready for.

the day. started well unlike

other years.

wait for the bird song , radio three.

eight thirty. sunday bells,

stand.

in the garden.

listen to the bird song.

sbm.

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10k

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

turn, return.

you mention that we had come far, it seems

that you are walking faster.

or am i lagging behind. now.

sbm.

there are no photographs.

precious

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

vase.

hampreston.

sbm.

my world of leaves

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

below.

maybe this or a lack of adrenaline caused

it, the coming together of years which

slowly pass.

shadows of birds. dust motes in air.

marmalade toast.

is this the final drop?

sbm.

regrading christmas

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

much.

not about money, more about family. it may

be time you told them.

it is time to regrade

christmas.

sbm.

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the time of year

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.

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