Category Archives: uncategorized

..two squirrels..

no one about

the whole way down the back road.

two squirrels so i talk to them, and the tiny

dunnock bird

he said they are brown

down

in the dirt and this is so

they often are as are we

all

good place to be in earth

to plant and grow while

small birds look for food

**

the story continues

**

now you know that the bird has died

and her wish was to preserve it somehow

that was yesterday

she had balanced it on a cotton reel, you know the old wooden ones with red thread.

this balancing thing

started years ago

in childhood, a game. later life a habit, a meditation.

she watched others, the artists balancing stones

copied , then balanced all sorts, soaps. boxes, anything really.

perhaps it is a control thing she supposed as she balanced the bird.

today

it stays easily. she looks a long time, takes her phone

and photographs.

looks, looks

adds objects.

photographs .

waits for dusk, for the light to change

lowers and photographs. a different app and repeat

another photograph.

a rest

to diary checks on the body each day for corruption, by now in the

clean studio below.

she had tried other things in the past to preserve. a robin in the freezer all the time she was away and had been succesful in that it was complete but came with her fear of the thaw : so never was.

now next to the peas in the vegetable section.

the shrew had been sat in a nutshell and had dried naturally as did the bird that came down the chimney and stuck in the stove that summer. found on a chill day when opening the door to start a fire.

she makes the decision on drying though knows the chances are slim.

meantime the photographs continue and move on to scanning the wee thing alone, then with varying backgrounds and degrees of success.

skulls .

there are a lot of skulls down here in the studio. a few any way. she is prone to her own excitement and exaggeration.

bird skulls found, placed, kept, some on cotton reels under glass domes. her father had done that now she followed his lead. she remembered the time he had placed a mouse corpse under a bell jar to see how that worked

he was dismayed at the decay and mildew; the stench when he lifted that jar. his experiment a failure.

it was that same day when the news was full of belsen, the camps and with that smell of one dead creature as company he despaired at history. he despaired still over the present time, wordless.

he had told her about it all over and over in shame for what they had done; still do.

her mind had wandered back, with time to remember, reflect. she drags back to the now to the task in hand.

the preservation.

the words remain.

** each chapter a day; each day a chapter, each chapter a bird.

each day a drawing**

so she continues in the studio drawing.

she likes this feeling

of

honest marks and lines different from the immediate gratification of a photograph. though with the latter she enjoys the creativity of editing, layering ; drawing in on the original idea.

time passes, passes. her mind so focussed that world outside her own skin forgotten.

time passes.

the bird

preserved.

it is a gift.

**

there is no one about down the back road

just two squirrels.

i wander up the slope to the studio

to see if she is in.

..storm dennis..

it is on soundcloud
with ken’s voice and
another and it will
appear in the forum

when it is time. you
see i can copy and paste
here yet it is long and seedy

&

i feel full of daftness and sentiment
that really won’t do this time of a
morning

some may say i am being bashful
though it is absolutely true that i
only did it as it was homework
set by richard, a good sort. wears
the eu badge you now.

then it amused my head daily to imagine
what was happening and it all got longer

i read that a page is 300 words so i done
that then some more. the next homework
was a second page, so that added more

i am late today as work is cancelled yet
again with the storm and we are being
sensible

i think my neighbour has lit the stove
as i can smell it here next door, it feels
companiable, him being there.

we talk about stuff sometimes
out back looking down the estuary.

7.33am

storm dennis

.a bird.

hope you got out into the fields
saw the wild things grow

i met with a friend yesterday
mentioned you briefly over

there on tug hill. said that
we chat about fuel, the animals

that you are a veteran
he suggested that if

you are our generation
that woulld be vietnam

and how beautiful it is
now despite all that

damage

we should look after things
better. i wrote a thing a while

back. it filled my head with
pictures. a guy from the U.S.
recorded it and folks said

good things
no bashing at all

asked me to read it
and it broke me every time

i think i shall continue
the story somehow

it is about a bird

.shelter.

it must feel empty
even with those left
it is all on the last
page which i cannot

see without losing it
here

did/do they all have
names or numbers

here once it was numerals
which became an issue
when one left meaning
four was then three

then four went
and the naming
anomoly was gone

they are in the garden
neatly arranged

i hope yours settle well
find new homes by posing

looking pretty
or cute

i repeat
you done good

.diesel.

yes. i like both the thought
& the actual being to bed

nesting in cotton & feathers
curling in dreams to awake

refresh

see the morning early

sometimes i miss a letter
look back & misunderstand

we pretend things here then
wonder which is which

so by the sounds on the roof
there is heavy rain
too dark to see

i must go to town
where the roads are
being resurfaced all
over

so i drive a while out
of the way to get in
without disruption

and go by the garage
so may as well get fuel

.best thing.

i saw the geese fly over yesterday
in formation

heard them coming first

it was voted the best thing
of the day

besides the tidying
in the garden
clearing the storm debris

making
plenty of wild wood
for the fire

second favourite thing
is the plastic monkey toy
which claps and chats its mouth

complete

with sweets that cost one pound

.pat says.

winter brings
blind mountain soaked,
peat bogged, sulking
in wet cyclists, heaven colour
of gold on grey again.

he clears the leaves each day
from formal lawn
looks up
as i look at him,
a glimpse
outside .

god is in the small things.
.
pat says.

..passers by..

you send quite a strong message
within your missive. thoughts on
our vulnerability

how we try to be well; stay
safe

something will get us
at the end

he says people will carry on
the fight; them spending so
much
while
those on the streets suffered
even more this week in this
storm

suffer intolerably
i have seen them spat
upon

weather continues
plans change……

..film star..

unclench your fitful hands

this is a challenge

he held them tight while driving

despite the storm warning, to spite

the warnings

his lips smudged

rimmel red

slim he wore them, pleated like

a dancer’s

cloth

fit not cut , if that is

the current expression

i feel he was a man of his time

despite the secrecy, despite

the storm

..the dunnock..

.. first page..

he wanted a love story.

***

unbelievable

the

deep pain she felt ; would kill her unless she did something.

unless she killed herself.

no!

walking helped, always her remedy in challenging times.

the feeling of going forward , air brushed. body moving; speeding & healing, even with fatigue & grief dragging back.

she yearned for a new page, a fresh beginning.

wren had the will to start over and needed a challenge, something else.

for 23 years she had gone along with how things panned out without question, mainly content with this.

now after that night , she thought it time to be proactive, to do something to counteract her loss.

a bus ride then, up to llanberis, up the mountain to trek . the place where her father was born and had lived all his life.

wren had moved away in her youth, a job had come up in liverpool in the arts and she was accepted. as before she went with the flow.

she had not gone back for long, only to see dad. she never visited the village or wandered the lanes, listened to the voices.

a place of slate, of stones.

she had felt apart there then.

then

her father’s voice was enough, thick with the local accent.

her speech was affected by her time in liverpool ; reverted back unintentionally when she crossed the border.

she knew how she looked even without glancing a mirror. small., thin, bedraggled & careless, reflecting her mood.

her dad had named her after the bird with her being so tiny at birth. her bones felt brittle now like that bird.

a bird’s name

a bird’s frame

the bus came.

always on time

she wondered how they managed that with all the distance, the hazards between. one driver explained that he worked it one stop to the next, his eye on the time.

she got on, showed her pass and said she was heading for snowdon

” is that all you got” he said, looking at her bag. most passengers would have more.

” it is all that i have , yes, it is all i have ” she said and in that moment the idea came.

while walking

she will look for the dunnock.

the little brown bird found down in the dirt.

not many on the bus; all spaced apart. the driver whistled through his teeth breaking the air, while wren inwardly pointed to all the familiar landmarks on the route. she wiped the window with the back of her coat sleeve to see better.

settled for a few hours’ travel, her mind drifting back, thinking on that life changing moment

when he had said he wanted a love story

he had wanted more description, she suggested one used imagination.

** each chapter a day; each day a chapter, each chapter a bird.

each day a drawing**

.last page.

she wanted to find the dunnock,; she searched and found the dunnock.

“the dunnock died as all things die”

she chanted to herself while rocking.

yet yet

all had come round, come clear.

older now . body and mind.

she knew he had wanted a love story and while she imagined what he meant , she had found love in herself for this little thing.

the bird

which

now lay in her upturned palm. light ,still and hardly there yet very there. no weight in the little bones.

it had lived its time while she had watched daily.

the space between remembered.

he had been right when he told her that dunnocks were found down in the dirt.

a big man wearing binoculars looking for the hawfinch which frequented the yew trees by her father’s house.

she had stayed longer with dad than intended, explored the lanes this visit, stopped to hear the village voices.

this man had been a visitor and he was right.

there at the bottom of the hedge she had found it.

you have read what comes between these pages, the story of a spring into summer.

the story of a wren regaining hope.

that morning the letter came; she read that due to her long absence her job in liverpool had gone. at that moment she noted that her voice had changed back permanently with the border and the liver bird had flown.

she went to her dad at the gate and to the bird man; told him she would stay.

come home.

he touched her head lightly; the bird man also. the three walked back into the house together. they took the dead dunnock to preserve some how.

they closed the door.

you wanted a love story. this is now yours to keep. it is a gift.

snatches of a life of care.

the end page is shorter for most was said between.