it is a source of inspiration, and research. it is written, yet having writ. we use. imagination, add a dose of suggestion, slightly thinking this is fact we do not move on when perhaps we should. so moving on quickly……
maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing. need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads us onward.
what about this list, to do it before you die, well as she said, you probably can’t do it after. some may disagree – another belief. we try not to judge, yet that bucket was not worth five pound,so
we paid two.
ready for later.
back to the counting, how many
have there been, how many are left
an issue for some, yet
we amend the figures
here and move on.
lucky ones, maths
divides and decimates
yet it is the weave that holds
it all together, makes it strong.
be an example.
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.
symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.
it is a relaxing place the library,
free rental on a dvd if you borrow
a barry hines. all creatures great
and small.the enemy within, a short
history of witch hunting, recommended
by the boston globe, and a guide to
the king james bible, the english language,
words like begat, horribly afraid, goats and swine.
a lovely children’s illustrated for inspiration, delight.
we built blocks, read jokes, talked of mending,
forgot our toys.
i read asher lev….
the dvd didn work.
storm predicted, wind swept,
the visitors came, to report
the leak was dripping
on the soap and mothth.
my bath room.
it has been a week of water,
seeping the cellar, blowing
the window wide, wreaking
the soap was laid gently,
a radiator, pears.
the mothth on a cottin flannel
they both dried, thanks
to my visitor.
I stayed home all day.
declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.
declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.
ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved
quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no
brawn, yesterday. half day
the line cut through, yet the photograph
cannot take or make a true image
of the situation. i repeat the question
no answer can ever come, now
brymbo man. some things we
shall never know, never show.
so we move on to find small treasures,
tiny birds frozen in time, dice to find a future,
to find a friend that has always been
i shall write of brawn.
as none were made. no brawn
to be spoken of today.
along the coast to aeron,
aberaeron, to chase the ghost,
look out to sea.
gone now, ragged curtains hang.
more dice take us,
scissors hang in corners,
to cut and paste
the dogged words of life.
chant the twisted trees
of chancery, note the roots.
no comments found.
used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.
qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.
i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.
so he spoke to me of
brawn, how he boiled it
on monday, picked out
bits, on tuesday, when it
now it is all health and safety,
list of ingredients, nobody
asks him any more. most
butchers buy it in, along side
he had that, and all his fingers.
it happens when it is cold, and
he showed me his scars. white
hair poked from his bib, the other
butcher, is not his son. he chose
a different career, the butcher
just wanting hime to be
i bought a rolled breast of lamb
at two pounds, fifty.