Monthly Archives: July 2017

in passing

i often drop in when i am passing on my way

up northish. the conwy valley. he always asks

if i am surviving.

i try to say just yes, while thinking of the titanic.

or thinking that

i do not make it for money, and have several

pensions.

i just say yes,

i am surviving.

they are nice lads, work hard to survive.

#titanic.

sbm

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the sky has lifted early

a garden in regret yesterday before the mist cleared.

leeks in bundles while a lone robin sat her eggs, soft

in moss.

sun came, so we went up to see the churchyard cleared

ready.

a flower festival.

sea fret in by six. today the sky has lifted early.

sbm.

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memorial

most of the books are gone, to children

or to charity. there are watches settled

in dust.

few of the stylish garments left, kept for

best.

an installation.

there is a cabinet, of course, with two catapults,

one bought, one home made.

kept with all the papers.

david & goliath.

sbm.

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evil it was, evil it is

did you dream of evil last night, for evil it was.

pocked, bleeding and dead. back broken.

this morning the garden is damp, a mole died

peaceably.

plans for a new path are growing, yet there was

evil.

again.

last night.

sbm.

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pip

a shortened version of blackberry pips, and phillip. she made

me bread, a reject of her former days. with banana and flour.

cake is good for you it has eggs , not sure how many .

he seems to write different now, i wish that i did, i do try and

sometimes it works.

the pips do their job, sticking round teeth, helping us go natural.

i found one in my ear.

yesterday.

sbm.

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salt spray

ah the sea, the sand, it comes in bottles now, dearer than the cheaper stuff.

i had not met her before, went in on the off chance. waited a while till she

was free.

she did it different, said nice things about my skin. in a small way she gave

me confidence.

i bought the quiche, sat in the cathedral grounds.

used the salt spray, and did not die.

of it

sbm.

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there is no number on my gate

(adding yet.)

there is no number on my gate, the house has a name. the lane

does not.

liking labels, i also like numbers on things, denoting nothing

in particuar.

she once said that though the name sounds romantic in it’s

language,

translated

it does not. she is correct.

the box is emptied, found numbers hid to please us, come

public.

a worry is will the colour run, & if it does will we mind ?

the larger road here is also numbered, and lettered. a470.

sbm.

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#chestercathedral

i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope. #chestercathedral

look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.

wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?

#chestercathedral

it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.

#chestercathedral

pray for them, all is in disorder.

sbm.

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wouldst thou be pm,an abbreviation

archaic or dialect question, in appropriate. a lowly start

with slight misgivings, i come arrived from the country, an immigrant

here.

if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely. a safe bet in that

something grows decently.

do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty? mine was

white last year,

now nothing germinates.

the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant. forgive me, this is the second

time. this time,

i shall stay.

despite my nationality.

sbm.

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