those things around me, things are said, overheard and remembered

history, news

writing

it means the dust will not settle, and each small thing has importance. it gives me voice

with

a rhythm of sounds, words and all feelings

I find that when I cannot draw it, photograph it I can at least describe it

layer it

pressure goes, is gone with the news that

my legs are ever brown

that

the trees have changed by the maentwrog

bend

that my voice no longer is

streaming through my head

between my ears sounding

like lead

and while all this has settled

tuck in and sleep a while

the pressure diminishes

september rises

all was well yesterday

it happens every year

excited we run down to the damson tree

in gwylim’s garden

run on to the apple tree

with a clothes prop

to bash the fruit down

stand back when the boy shouts

he is chucking rocks in desperation

as boys inevitably do……..

may be that is where they learned it; those fishermen?

i think of all this when i see the last apple hanging

when i mend the clothes prop

(note- conkers next)

you stand like sentinels above

straight lined and backed

up

there early

what shall i tell those below?

that i saw you there

as biblical prophets?

what shall i tell them?

that i saw you

all waiting early.

earlier than my arrival

here.