he said that we will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.
he will remember me.
the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.
it was hot, so
i layed a cold
( in respect for david alexander mcalden. my friend )
“carry your words on every day”
( initial words by wilfred. my friend. )
we sit quietly here, fretting
over nothing in particular.
some bemoan their lot,
others get on with it willingly.
stop and have a cup of tea.
while others walk in #ice and mud,
while others #drown,
while others #starve.
without a #cup of tea.
the plate is lovely, slightly fade
into other places, where bears ride
bicycles, where no one eats brown food,
it is a gift to know what the other
likes, and to like it yourself. the wind
blew through our house, while the sky
the plate is larger than usual.
it seems we sing peace,
good will. if we sing at all.
while others vote
about dropping bombs
( note – the innocents.)
RE: . pdf .
sonja benskin mesher
I wake to find the internet is fixed,
so have read the document file.
as time is short, and the fact that
it all looks very well. I did like my odd spacing,
yet the dots are there.Let us go ahead and
both have a very nice day. I thank you
for all your work on this, and at
the weekend too.
i am very pleased, a little excited.
yes shall we refer to it as the journal.
do you think you will notice them more now, my love?
it is mentioned that you may not be present next year,
that your age is wrong.
all is agreed, we plan for the future, diaries intact.
do you think you may ponder more, my love?
or simply play in the lane, laughter ringing
this autumn air.
some trees die.
it has been a while since we spoke.
even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.
some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.
it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.
i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.
even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?
it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.
all things pass.
i shall occasionally write, and never send.
it was quite a shock, that there are no boxes left.
only those of a different size, quite a shock your anger
that leapt from nowhere. of course it does not
matter.yet with that and the moon,how can one sleep.
how can one pack and tidy when things are the wrong
shape, and emotions rise.
do me a favour, and know it was a favour, looking
the sheds are now tidy.
taste best to those who like them.
slightly tart, we suck, throw the stones
to the wild.
maybe they will grow.
the door bell rang, you came with
your sweet heart, when i was closed.
you drank the tea i made you, ate
my chocolate biscuits.
i hardly recognised you without your hat.
an odd affair. ate more plums, went to bed.
the words, no need to visit,
fell on deaf ears.
slow down when squirrels cross.
nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.
she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.
the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.
this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.