pyjamas from the line, rain rinsed. complimented. not mine really.
left by his estate, three quarters of an acre, where the washing dries.
on a good day or tumbled in bad weather. often it is milder here when
it rains. you can smell that too. most things have a scent, not always
particularly like early grey and burned toast, although there are now
warnings on the latter. with butter.
ashes of roses.
there is no replacement for mummy’s hammer or its official name.
i saw one of a different style today…
more gutsy, i laid it straight, removed the things for charity.
the boxes all looked very well. no dust.
none that i can see. phillip glass is eighty now, the hammer from 1930
or soon after.
the middle drawer.
pirate gun, a toy from woolworths probably.
they said to put my eye to the sight and pull
no caps, yet the hammer caught my lip. swelling.
badly. water to my eyes.
nearly forgotten yet i find that something still
what is assumed a long forgotten memory,
“A bruise, or “confusion,” appears on the skin due to trauma”
(of an offence) made more serious by attendant circumstances.
time is upon us, as he writes, fine dust from the fire, the old way.
we used to sit the rise and think of this. drive the evening hunting the blue flax fields . found and waded the poppies outside the dyke, worked the red thread. again. danced .
it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that, he said. does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty room. yellow.
down by where we park is a cement mixer, sometimes.
there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words. we are sorry that you cried.
it has been a good morning so far. with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.
there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip. i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely, kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.
it all showed pride and i know
you have seen it too. raddled
face in mirrors, knowing that we
are all much the same. we move
it has been so, so many years. dormant.
hurts and atrocities.
you did not know you said it.
did not remember.
did not mean it.
sixty years later, passed it forward
when you shouted. this is how
things go round.
for which i apologise.
hurts and atrocities.
darkness descends upon our houses.
watch it unfold as predicted. you
did not listen.
you said it will all be great again,
not that it ever was. now we watch
as darkness descends.
descends upon our houses.
ceilings, automatic doors. tread carefully the red carpet.
watch. the landscapes quietly.
building where I lost myself, found one worn stair,
walled words on bravery.
we laughed at his phone vibrating the glass table,
automatically. there are no heros here.
just quiet and responsibility.
books bound in leather.
she orders a sonnet about modern tech
nology , some recent language urban
slang. wiki & googling helps while spellcheck
defeats nistakes . publishing on blurb and
lulu. gifs no issue. focus on taste.
.work. memes are impossible to pronounce.
denounce the pass it forward, copy/ paste.
why write verse when we can talk or announce
loudly.. save in my cloud to edit share
. no rhyme no more. no elizabethan
manner. we taps it clear. is with difficulty
keyboards sticky, some have no empathy
that I prefer old ways. yet computer
smart create in a more abstract manner
run in parallel lines, find words have no control. the lake on the other hand, , padded , dark through medieval floating green. a day of shifting gravity, i wonder to slip
after diving nicely
clear eyes ,
remember the cold ness of the day.
glow in groups of style and ease. now.
die back gracefully or be