always meaning of the day in the way dried linen and cotton is folded and packed away in cupboards and drawers some spiced with sweet spring fragrance as if she thought comfort against the harsh bite of weather and loss and memory is tidied away to emerge later like a photograph album every cloth a snapshot of a mislaid sense, or occasion deep as a fresh bed.
she arranges the palms for Palm Sunday contemplating their crinkle when the donkey walked on them with the weight of a saviour on it’s back, not like when she was on the wonky donkey at Cleethorpes who wobbled to and fro and made her drop her icecream in the sand, so she wept and her dad said “Well that were a waste,” but her mam hugged her, and told her not to take any notice of Mr Grumpy, and the sun was always warmer when she was young
“April (Word Hoard Calendar)” published in Literally Literary. Many thanks Jess
“This Desk Is A” kindly published by Efe in The Wrytyr
“Let Go” kindly featured by Duane in Poetree.
http://duanespoetree.blogspot.co.uk/2017/04/normal-0-false-false-false-en-us-x-none.html?m=1
hurt of the mouth so you can’t speak, hurt of the nostrils so you can’t sniff, hurt of your arse so you can’t dirty,
hurt of your crotch so you can’t. Holes are all wounds, even doors have scars you open and close with keys, doors into homes and possessions, into staying for a while. Cemeteries are full of holes healed by a mouthful of dirt. Sewers are hurt not yet healed, windows too. Dig a hurt to heal with seed that will flower if cared for. 
“You Are There” kindly featured in Visual Verse.
stone quarried and removed but left unused, detached from main body. To be prepared and trained to work and then abandoned whilst others do the work, a spare wheel, food not eaten at the end of a meal, an addition to the waste of the world, and if someone is concerned that you’re unused, but still useful take you in hand to help those less well off. Through other’s good graces more than a spare part.
of absences in the photograph
in the hollows where time passes
as if it is an empty space
where their ashes
lost themselves
in the blue
filled with lost places that are not places
until they are found
“Fresh Rots Soonest” Thankyou to Heath for publishing in Literally Literary.
View at Medium.com
The Wombwell Rainbow 