. liberty bodice .

she implied  that the buttoned ones,

were far superior to plain, some folks

folded newspaper to keep the chill at bay.

small girls wore thermogene, now

all is tee shirts, being chilly, but then

most have central heating, a few cling

to the coal fire, woodburners,

living flame.

proper vests were warm, tucked well in.

if you visit llandudno by the sea, you

still find these items, displayed quite

badly some may say, so we refer back to

those with buttons,  which may be better.

it was such a lovely morning.


. siop y hughes .

that is the welsh spelling, guess the english

is hughes shop, where they have many items

of use, substance, for some an entertainment.

various style pins, in various size boxes, folded

cotton handkerchieves, with a separate room

for night and underwear, where the lady will

serve the ladies.

she feels the cod, and he wears winter mittens.

windows are colour coordinated, the clothes

link arms, bed socks abound. fluffy.

this is a most useful place, where one can

buy traditional, hire hats for splendid weddings,

hats will last, with  the marriage, time

will tell.

not visited, please do, it is next to  roberts,

the coffee shop.

both splendid premises. dolgellau.



Are you my queen?

Chess pieces copulating without regard for rank or colour in the darkness and damp of the Great Maze.


Giant pawns impersonating balustrades on high balconies till you lean on them, then sneering as you all tumble, ‘We shall survive the fall.’


Going into the important office to renew some license you are confronted by a large seated chess piece. It is a seemingly inanimate bishop.


Other people insist your house, which looks perfectly normal to you, is a chess piece. They stand beside you and take a photo: it’s a castle.


You look at your house, which is still just a house. You look at their camera – it seems normal. You ask a passerby: ‘It’s a chess piece.’


You have a pepper grinder in the shape of a pawn. You suspect it is having relations with a bottle of olive oil. At night you hear grinding.


One morning you come downstairs and find eight little glass chess pieces, each full of grass green oil. The doorbell rings. It is a Grandmaster.


You can only negotiate the grid of the city blocks by moving like a knight. You waste days in elaborate ‘moves’ to get where you want to be.


On your complicated way to work you pass a shop selling edible chess pieces: cheese chess, jelly baby chess, meat cheese, vegetarian chess…


One set is crustaceans versus fish. Pawn prawns, of course, a king crab. But the ‘fish’ team is a mix of shell-fish and cephalopods: you complain.


The shop owner is the same Grandmaster. ‘Everyone else likes it,’ he says. ‘It’s freshly prepared every morning and flies from the shelves.’


‘I was born in this quarter,’ you say: ‘I don’t remember all this chess.’ ‘There’s always a strategy,’ he says. ‘This is your middle game.’


You sit in the park where the chessboard tables used to be. Each has been crushed as though by a giant foot. There’s a crashing in the trees.


You ask: ‘Am I the player or the piece?’ ‘How many moves can I think ahead if I don’t know how many pieces there are?’ ‘Are you my queen?’

. casting on .

the continental way is tighter, grip

the thread, there will be no loopy

stitches, no more.

this is the way to speak, gentle, no

inuendos, benny hill or carry on films.

nothing wrong with none of that, yet

carrying on your own way is honest.

the knitting will be neater now, the

patterns more selective, we are

wool gatherers.