there is a flower bed and a cow,
called margaret, how delightful.

the villagers are dressed
well for their situation,
their station.

the child drooped, pined,
no thought though
of horror and melancholia.

dressed in a plain clean way.

as are we all here.

sbm.

all the novels, and romance,

volume two to forty,

all others being

fakes

that need dusting.

the clocks are silent.

pink sands of time

stand still.

the glass is clouded here.

sbm.

the blue is a prim,

and pretty room, draped

with musical games

of chance,

for settling here.

harp strings

relay the vital net,

after shakespeare.

the visitors leave.

lord byron wrote

of hours of idleness;

the letters below,

and all the while

you have no love for me,

worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

pink lights possibly work

like the rose tinted spectacles.

everything looks warm and safe,

needing large curtains in sombre fabrics

to hide us. is this the first step, two red

bulbs from poundland, at two for a pound.

fold the empy box flat,

and made keep it for future

ideas on rosiness.

sbm.

the robin came down as he cleared the ground,
all red chest, pretty eyes.

we discussed the earth, rich now, without
the stones. we could grow potatoes as they
did here in the war. i have the photograph.

these are fortunate times, while have disliked
the tuber since the flu struck.

there has been a lot of it this year here.

we plan a pretty little greenhouse, all white
with embellishments, red geraniums.

the robin watched, i am told he will like mealworms.

sbm.

my clocks have not gone anywhere,
yet moved the hands as suggested.
tick happily round the house,
chiming out of time.

unlike most things in the house, they
need a flat surface.

radio and telephone are correct, other
things here are not.

three years to mend the mantleclock
in porthmadog.

sbm.

the installation.

an audience of two,
one helper, five minutes.

in multiples of ten, each
one six sticky fixers.

all about numbers,
until equipment depleted
there was a break in the high street.

tourists remark that
this is a beautiful place.

wonderland.

sbm.

two installations, the old garden,
blue bells, wild garlic fuelling the air.

rain soaked, watcing the rooks nest
high at rosemundy, falling backwards
woke to find just a dream.

the doves
were plaster.

rosemundy.

sbm.

“mist rose before me,unexpected.those words said dumbfounded me a moment,as i raised my eyes saw the most beautiful controlled face,and i fell.”