.the residence, remembered.



we talked of hedges, again,

for these are not



we walked the dazzled mirror,



  1. no sitting here



strange, mythical creature’s

nest, next to

a dehumidifier.


milsom trap,

museum trap.

do not touch.


it is a history thing.




candle scissors,

snuff romantics, into hideaway,

and bliss.


thickly varnsh,

paper covers history.


bent on layers

of time, pretending.


doors and canopies.




small and slightly curious ,

is an artist in residence, here?


glass housed and labelled

ten years ago.


this house is closed, yet

will open at 10 am.





mirrored backed cupboards,

reflect the unshapely

past. times

and respective activities.


dogs bark.




there is lavender

in the fire, someone

is tapping

on the window, patterned

with cracked kings and



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.


all the novels, and romance,

volume two to forty,

all others being


that need dusting.


the clocks have

no ticking,

pink sands of time

stand still.


the glass is clouded here


sarah’s bible, hand held,

open via perspex

and blue velvet

at ecclesiastes,

chapter three.


to everything

there is a

feafon, etc,

in italics.


yet they kept the tour

of ireland,

via carr from 1806,

laid by sermons,

and commentaries,

on charles the first.

insistent letters,

volumes one to ten,

one to eight

and the family shakespeare.


people move about me,

listening, listening


mary parker

painted the ladies. did she paint the cat,

what is this?

the ladies at the door

will know.


then she spoke to me,

from abergele. all day,

learning history

of kitchens, copper pans.


she talked of every day, not dates,

or kings and queens.


the bedroom roped with blue,

a smallish bed and posies.


I feel nothing here,

no lost words or empathy.


it was closer, below.

where are you now?





donations by the heater,

to support the work,

and thank you

for your contribution.


take a leaflet.


we are ladies in the landscape


there is a detector 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.





do not take photographs

in an older fashion,

this well furnished library.


it is a charming neighbourhood,

this is the treasure.

prince puckler- muskau,

typical of the vale of conwy.


back packs seem foreign here.


surrounded, a personal garden,

a diary, victorious blog, upperclass,

disturbing on dung

and various attitudes.


we shall need

to sit and read

after buying meat in



poppies surround an obelisk.


a most extraordinary affair alongside

eleanor’s little louis shoes, beaded,

buckled, worn.


floor creaks, sarah embroiders drawstring bag

ad infinitum.

dog, named chase.

locked in despair

children gone, wood craft folk

leave their cars, looking stranger.


i shall come back to read.


there is one chair without

forbidding string.


who is the curator here?

it is a brass ormolu mirror, speckled with time and turquoise.


we make a place of safety

with our thoughts and habits.


our work. our souls

are in our chests.


look here, she said.

please, do not touch

the ladies bed,

with lavender and velvet pillow.


the way is  now,

the time is past.


things have become misshapen.

hair powder, pomatum,

has lost its place in the world today,

trailing into the house.


titus and the maid,

were whitened,

greased, vinegared, plastered.


vermin could be rife,

put your head through the hole, see what you will become.


the gate is open.


look up to see, keys, thimble, linen laid.


shadows from white china, ball soap washed

from scum, lays ready.


who are you?

placed there, stitched quilt,


is it a gown, 1790, cotton hung.

is the cat alive, the fire burned out.


a view of crucus abbey.


the red thread of fate,

tied readily


patch work walls,

leather bound,

feel the stain and depth of  it.


break the glass and press.


it is extinguished now.


twenty years,

irons on the stairs, squirrel handled.


stand here, akimbo.

take no prisoners.


I find no woodworm,

no takers.


outside with maud williams,

I cannot read for paper,

and dazzling brightness.


eggs, yes, we have

chickens and government run,

groups.dogs yapping.





here near the abbey, the railway.


memorial seats, past maud williams,

richard o’grady,

is cooler there.  pat strohmenger,

dogs yapping.


davis and rosumund carter,

a fit of sneezing by the flowers.


henry Cunningham, killed in action


finally, so tired, the place.


lips shaking, ate spinach salad.

bed as a child.









Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s