the cloth once white, is black again

beady eyed. these are the hopeful days, weak sun aching …

4
to air and store, to host the mouse that eats the soap. no longer

look at the little people.
arms held high. the medicine
is in the cabinet, they cannot
reach it.

** ( notes and diagrams)

there are times

when i am rendered

speechless,

and so i was,

again………

the museum man

says it is the medieval place,

that causes the feeling

of calm and acceptance,

and smiled at our excitement

on the glass , the remembrance

and hallmarks.

he works there.

he said he never

noticed the thistles,

just handed me the bag.

** ( notes on the moving image)

captured a year ago,

is still and minimal,

grey and sad.

move the image again

to prove the alignment?

are you sleeping
cariad bach

while i watch the buryng,
the pain,
the madness,
the snowdrops.

are you sleeping,
while they hold her up.

cariad bach.

. we are friends .

we are friends , we met in the lane.

the words sound like poetry, the quiet
voice sounds shouting in this silence.

it can make windows and opportunities,
space to accompany the music.

travel far and in between, play the right notes,
write notes, and then maybe, all will come

clear. or not.

i need that stop.

that early evening,

slips into dusk.

the last blackbird singing.

that idle if not in

gainful employment.

there are thoughts

that are randomly baleful,

or so mediocre

need reviving.

sbm.