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
rhythms of black birds ; black jack ; flap jack stream of consciousness
these recollections ; another time eighteen hundred eighteen hundred …
i wish i wrote like others with words of wonder full syllables, bells ringing, you know.
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………
on what is or is not,
reflection on life,
and what is not.
reflections,
ourselves back to front.
or not.
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.