Author: sonja benskin mesher

i wrote of blood, yet did not share it much. you may think we share our hidden thoughts, yet some remain. it is a pretty day, with a light frost and stories of the northern lights.   we walked a while yesterday, he was visiting his sister.   i came home,  fingers bled. sbm.  …

it is difficult to negotiate the crowd from the funeral to drive down the lane, home. it is difficult to hold that feeling, the tearing throat driving home. it has been years.   now at last we clear the furthest corner to make way for new plants. cut the rubbish piece by piece, stacking, packing…

smoothing the wrinkles i think of another time. how reasonably priced they are, such a usefull item, to protect the bed.     those that sleep there can rest in the knowledge that all is well covered, there will be no shame, no hardship.   remember the days of rolling an old one down the…

sweetly he tells me there are other capybaras in the capybara house.   sbm.    

after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove to see the fish, and met the capybara.   who was surprised?  its hair all needing drawing, nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood alone, as did…

was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground, it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we mended things, with love and string. it is a challenge, 52 , to even think and google meanings. many types, immeasurable, not three nor for all of us. yet those of us who do, may trust blindly,…

the old blanket is new, a find from brynkir mill, the new blanket is old, have had it a while. “I watch the blanket breathe, hope it will never stop. pinc, cellular, keeping warm, the one I love. scares me, this intensity of feeling, that never stops, and continues when the blanket lays quiet…… pinc…

some people seeking perfection, their dream in music decline. have their own reality, ideals, unreasonable requests. we found the shade, missed any remarkable rainfall, ate the cherries, at the royal welsh. no are no demands, no disappointments. these are the days, a repetition. sbm.

how small.   how white the child, skin rinsed with tears.     salt in the wind. ©sbm

there is a laybye , the field so pretty to park by, the gate to lean. will you report the fire? no i stopped to admire. i had seen the stack before, the logs laid neatly, all was ready then, now your flames attract me, to talk of lambs and springtimes. it is from the…

it is the way of things, while there are birds.   while you read, you will not understand  all words, that is the way of things, soak those stains in washings.   then look quietly, see a new.   cellular memory, let be, and learn, that small birds fly up.   sbm.