Tuesday, 14 February 2017

At The Time Of The Snow Moon





The moon is a frozen pond.
It is The Snow Moon. The Hunter’s Moon.
Someone says a lunar eclipse will happen this night.
And a comet!
We are like children with torches forecasting midnight feasts…
But we slumber deep, lungs with cold air replete, minds a-wander.
An early start.
Wake to the sparsest spaced flakes - ten to a cubic furlong, perhaps.
(Perhaps we dreamt this precise detail?)
Blearish eyes are rubbed.
Ahead, a deer, in no danger from ice-wary driving, springs across tarmac.
From a canopy’s winter bones, an owl swoops, parallel.
In a blink, a hedge bird breaks our reveries.
Clips the car, sends feathers a-puff.





Friday, 3 February 2017

How Will We Know Where We Are?





Without the dead ash looming, we had lost our sense of where our drive is. Each time we missed, reversed, reminded ourselves to find a stump and a grand wood pile: that’s where we live.
The altered reference.
We are getting used to it.

Yesterday Storm Doris broke the legs of Lily Scare-the-Crow. Literally weather beaten!
Was this venting frustration, now storms cannot break branches from the chopped tree?

When Lily was our new scarecrow, we would reverse under precarious boughs, be startled by the  person in the rear view mirror, the flat wooden figure with the child-drawn face.
Now, after remembering where we live, we are startled to not find a face.

Lily has never scared a crow, nor lost her smile. She is, rakishly, propped in the lea of the lean-to.

‘What new times are these, Lily?’ I ask. ‘How will we know where we are?’
Ask your heart, she says (it’s what I hear).
And I think, that’s rich, when you don’t have one: but she’s never scared a crow, nor lost her smile.






Wednesday, 11 January 2017

Out With The Old





Christmas or November - 2015 - a phone call came. The casual branch dropping of our dead ash tree had been acknowledged as a danger; it was scheduled for demolition. Storms came, the tree surgeon was busy.
We become accustomed to vigilance at the garden’s end. No one loiters in the road there. We drag the droppage to the hedge, to rot down into good soil.
January 2017 - another phone call. Tree surgeon and crane are booked, the landlord says.
Uh-huh.
It may storm yet, we say, we’ll see.
But we park the car out by a field gate - you never can be sure.

The crane is amazing. It straddles the road, reaches to the sky. Up goes the man in the yellow mesh box. Chainsaw whirs. Bit by bit, down drops our dissected tree.

Dear Fat Trunked Ash, we have loved your silhouette. We have loved to run and startle off a coat of starlings. Loved to see Old Crow sat, stark black on bare branch. We witnessed the last of your leaves falling, looked for buds that didn’t bloom, changed your name.
Dear Dead Ash, we have our near-miss stories. Favourite photographs of you, looming, a full moon caught in your dry twigs.
We have this amazement at the power and skill required to bring your bulk to the ground.
We have wood to sort.

Blurry, the next morning, from the window, check we are not dreaming.
A new view from this garden’s edge.








Thursday, 29 December 2016

In The Middle Of The Winter Feast





On the fourth day of Christmas her true love gives to her:

‘Four German Men
Three Finch Hens
Toowoo Twurtle Doves
And A Part Of A Pear Tree’

But to the dearth of our amusement Grandchild 2 finds a book detailing the traditional 12 gifts and begins to teach herself the proper form. Not so proper she can’t slink off with all the cherry tomatoes. If questioned, we know it was not Grandad. She says it anyway, laughing.

Grandchild 5 can follow the others with her eyes, she wants to be up to mischief like the others say they are not. 
Grandchild 1 kicks a football onto the grass he is not supposed to run on because… something about mud… if he asks Grandchild 3 to fetch for him he has contravened no carpet law! 
It’s not his fault we were all listening.
And where’s Grandchild 4?
Not hitting anyone with a stick of course - that was Dog, he says.
It’s not his fault we were all watching.
Grandchild 3 casually drops a stick behind her back.
But we’re all laughing. 

Frost fading fast, a bright sun. Cold meats on plates. 
Standing quiet, in the middle of our winter feast.



       





Friday, 23 December 2016

Yule Tale 2016


A Slightly Parallel Cinderella







Once upon a time and place, in a slightly parallel universe (for further reading on slightly parallel universe theory please refer to Dr Cod’s excellent Physics For Storytellers) all children were hatched and raised for adoption. 

They were named in themes, and Cinderella was hatched during a craze for old fashioned, gender orientated, Disney character names. 

She was adopted by a spacious mansion full of fabulous toys. She ate fabulous food. She took fabulous pictures of it all and posted them on her social media. From that she made her two bestest-ever-friends-forever, Lady and Tramp. They each lived in toy packed mansions, maybe if anything a little bit more fabulous than Cinderella’s lavish life but they were good enough to apologise and repeatedly tell her that it was okay not to have the biggest and best all of the time, they would still like her pictures and she mustn’t feel bad about herself, she wasn’t unloveable or shabby or really unfashionable.


Even so, Cinderella began to feel that life was essentially pointless unless she could get a pair of crystal shoes before Lady or Tramp did. 
She stayed up all night to create a shopping algorithm that would get her order in first, but then she fell asleep before confirming the purchase and, alas, the order automatically cancelled.

As if this was not tragic enough, the very next day both Lady and Tramp shared pictures of their invites to the Pop Up Library Tea Dance. Cinderella checked and rechecked her mail accounts, but there was no invite. 
She cried, posted up a picture of herself with red eyes, pretending she had a terrible cold and would not be able to go to any events, and thanked everyone for their deep sympathies. 
Then she hid and cried properly, and not even shoes could console her. It was like a pit had opened up in her very soul, which she didn’t even know could happen!

She cried right into the heart of the night. She stepped onto her balcony and felt the cold air on her un-moisturised skin.
She remembered that she hadn’t cleansed or flossed or dressed or done anything that whole day. 
She looked up at the slightly parallel moon. 
‘I want things to be different, moon,’ she said, ‘can you help?’
A ping from her computing table broke the reverie. 
She ran indoors to read, avidly: ‘Greetings Cinderella, this is a Fairy Godvoucher. You shall go to the Pop Up Library Tea Dance and wear any shoes at all, there’s no dress code!’
‘What? I don’t get the shoes?’

But before despair could well afresh, a cold breeze slid across her shoulders. It seemed that the moon was listening.
‘Okay. I will go to the Pop Up Library Tea Dance. I will wear the first outfit that pops out of the outfit generator. I will put an eye mask on first and get some sleep.’

Cinderella slept most of the next day, so she was truly restored for the Tea Dance that evening. Her outfit generator spat out a skirt suit, but she didn’t press the reject button. She dressed, and smeared colours on her face, and pinned sparkles in her hair, and summoned her carriage.

Lady and Tramp were delighted to see her, though obviously so disappointed she hadn’t any crystal shoes. 
‘Never mind,’ they said, ‘emerald sandals aren’t completely out of style just yet, and if everyone has crystal shoes they will go out of style very quickly.’
‘Yes,’ Cinderella sighed. She was bored of their chatter and went to order some tea.

The waiter was dressed in traditional white and black, with dark straight hair in a ponytail. 
‘May I please have a pot of the rose and basil?’ 
‘Of course, which table?’
‘I think I’ll sit here please.’
‘Very well.’

The waiter scooped up herbs, steamed up water, mixed it all in a china pot. Cinderella, being of a gender orientated name, wondered what gender the waiter was. 
‘I don’t suppose your name is Handsome Prince, is it?’
The waiter laughed. ‘No. It’s Waiter.’
‘Oh.’ Cinderella fiddled with a spoon. ‘Well - do you identify as male or female?’
‘Neither. I don’t like to be constricted. I mean I’m all ready a waiter and I’m called Waiter so I suppose I like to at least maintain my inner freedom. In my mind I can be anyone, anywhere.’
‘Oh my lawks,’ said Cinderella, ‘this is the best conversation I’ve ever had in my life!’
She kicked off her emerald sandals. 
‘It’s nice to see people happy,’ the waiter said, somewhat bemused.
Cinderella poured herself a cup of delicious tea. She watched steam curl, breathed in fresh basil, perfumed rose. 
‘There’s a whole world out there,’ she explained, ‘and any number of worlds I can imagine in my own mind - and I’ve explored none of them! That changes from this moment!’
And she lived mindfully and inclusively ever after.

(Tramp was likewise enlightened, but in this slightly parallel universe I’m sorry to report that Lady was eaten by a bear.)





Picture credits (both via Pinterest)


Wednesday, 14 December 2016

A Candle Lit







We live by the light of those we love, whether they are here or gone.
That light is inextinguishable.
To have the light and not the company is an adjustment process we call grief.
Loss is a shadow, equal to the light.
We adjust not to lose the shadow but to see both.
Hard to bear - yet without darkness, light cannot show its full wonder.

Let us look after each other, then, and value our days, our company, and live to leave vast shadows, and understand that pain is a strange gift, a tender, haunting, purposed gift.

And if you are grieving: let your tears flow, let your anger shout, let yourself plead and deny and feel terrible: it is not an easy process. 
Know that other people know grief. 
Know that other people are hurt to see you grieve. 
Know that love is a fundamental response.

There is no time limit to this adjustment process. No right or wrong way to feel.
One day you will stand back and see that the shadow is proof to the strength of the light, and you will be full of wonder.
That light is inextinguishable.
You can live by it.


[Picture credit: TheAttitudeOfGratitude.com]


This was written for everyone, so it's a little generic: sometimes the love and the grief are complicated, sometimes there's an issue of closure, sometimes the lost one is young and bright, sometimes the grief is for one lost in dementia. I'm aware of each of these circumstances happening to someone this winter. Christmas season is full of loving family images and the contrast with reality can be uncomfortable. Sometimes the grief that wells up is simply from this comparison. I'm not trying to dampen festivities, rather open them up, and allow us all to find understanding, acceptance, to hold on to our own light. It's not hug-the-world nonsense, it's nothing new: if we all reach out, everything changes. 

Friday, 2 December 2016

Celebrators





Last night we tumbled first into wine, then sleep.
We had watched fabulous things on our television, our dreams were amazing.
I evolved legs to crawl from the bed. 

Yesterday was a Thursday, and the first calendar day of winter. She had swept in, draped with rich mist, strong and archetypal. How could we not celebrate?

This morning, the sun still sunk below an unseeable horizon, Dog goes out, crunches crystals under footpads. Our dead ash tree, scheduled to be cut down twelvemonth before, is a bold statement in a world of miniature wonders. 

Do you know we don’t actually have a television?
We bought a projector, we have a blank wall. 
It makes watching a deliberate thing.
Sometimes we drink wine on a weeknight but we are careful viewers.







Sunday, 13 November 2016

The Silence On Armistice Day







We were writing a shopping list, tapping phones to light up the time.
At 10:59 we fell silent, looked out of the window.

Heavy cloud, clearly defined though the sky also stood grey, the sombre limbs of our dead tree, the blur of bird wings chasing for food and territory, this we saw.
The pattern of rain on panes that need cleaning.
Droplets on hedge-leaves catching a light that’s rising.
It’s always this that catches me: just ordinary people, trooped out, and lost so much, just ordinary people, left at home to watch for letters, to dig into the earth, tend the vegetables, the places at the table that are waiting, waiting.
I sense all the ghosts, and nothing of vengeance; I am not too afraid to fight but this presence, this tide of loss, it tempers the need.
Civilisation seems built on bones.
So, here we are. The new bones. What will they build on us?

At 11:03 we startle, we chuckle, so lost in the moment.
Still - we will not forget.







Saturday, 12 November 2016

A Suburban Walk In Autumn






Rain - an ocean of it
Pavements, gardens, us, under this
Aquatic. All colours deepen
The music of it - a song
of falling, of flood: red-gold
the leaves that settle in gutters
Cold, the windfall apple
Cupped in a palm
The fragrance of it: spiced
Musked, humus:
What falls now, nurtures next year’s fruit.







Sunday, 30 October 2016

Halloween 2016: Miss Olivia Shoreditch Twice Wrestles A Bear



[Photo credit: Tim Flach, via Pinterest]

Miss Olivia Shoreditch had been in her bed for three days straight. She had her reasons, though reason itself had deserted her. There was nothing about it she could recall through any medium but her gut instinct. A terrible thing had occurred, she knew, though not what; she was attempting to recover, and she must get up slowly as there was an angry bear in the corner of her room. 

I will describe to you the bear. 
If it were in front of us now the first attribute to draw our attention would be the phenomenal size of it. It was standing upright, its head curved along the ceiling, hunched from the shoulders. Darkly purplish fur, thick and warm looking, the texture attractive, imbued with an aroma of stale blood, rank and coppery. Claws, lacquered black - hiding any sort of dirt - light slid along the curve of them. Teeth in dark gums were creamy coloured, stained in rusty blotches. Saliva hung pendulous, a burgundy tongue loitered. Eyes were discernible as glints. A rumble emitted from it.

Olivia gets out of bed, slowly, as her gut advises. The rumble is giving her a headache, the smell makes her feel sick. She puts her feet on the floor. The bear growls. Olivia feels her bladder pressing full. So she stands up, punches that bear in the centre of his belly, runs downstairs to the bathroom. The door is not strong enough to hold out an angry bear, but by the time he has made his lumbering way down the small staircase she is done in the bathroom and has dressed herself in some old overalls that had been conveniently left on the towel rail. They glower at each other for a moment.
‘I can’t be bothered with breakfast,’ she snaps, ‘let’s just take this outside!’
But the bear sits down, and opens a canvas bag he has strung across his shoulders. He takes out a leg bone, strung with pink stringy scraps, and begins to crunch it up. 
‘Well,’ says Olivia, ‘that’s just passive aggressive!’ 
She has a glass of water, sips it loudly. She drinks only half then slams the glass down on the kitchen worktop.
‘I don’t want a bear! Can’t you listen? You don’t even wrestle, why are you here?’ 
Nonplussed, the bear continues to chew. Olivia wants to hit him. She wants to hear his bones wrench. She wants to fasten her teeth on his claws and pull them out. She turns her back on him. She sees how nice the kitchen is looking in the morning sun, with washed up mugs standing on the steel drainer, a fresh tea towel hanging on a peg, and those tiles - those tiles with the glint of gold, the exact shade, the exact luminosity of her favourite festival lights. Does she remember? Not quite. A sense of something bright, something elusive, claustrophobically lost under time. She stares. Her eyes become dry then, by recompense, they flood. She is floating in gold flecked water when the bear presses his teeth to the back of her neck. Olivia screams. She runs out of her front door to the yard, the beasts’ claws puncturing her overalls, catching at her skin. Her caterwauls will not stop - she’s made of sharp noise - trapped by a wall she turns, throws herself at the stinking bear, unmatched in strength or size, possessed by survival: she wrestles.
She finds ribs to hit, and soft points of belly and throat. He smothers her, batters her, dots her in flesh wounds. Flowerpots crash. A drainpipe is knocked from the wall. Bins tip and they fight in trash. She throws dirt in his eyes. He throws her to the wall, she can’t breathe. He waits.
‘I’m actually very hungry now.’ Olivia says. 
She feels bruises growing, little buds about to bloom, purplish and fierce like the bear himself. The bear nods. His eyes are scratched and sore, the left one weeps a drop of blood.
‘I suppose I should offer you some toast?’
The bear stares. Olivia shrugs, limps back into her house. She cuts two slices of bread while the bear scuffles in his canvas bag. He pulls out a jar of berries, slowly unscrews the lid. 
It’s all very well, Olivia considers, while he has food he need not eat me. But how much food does he have? If I cannot defeat him, I had better feed him! But - what shall I feed him? Bones and berries, and what? 

Walking to the library followed by a hulking bear she draws some nervous attention. Olivia glares but the animal won’t wait outside. He squeezes in, rumbling, knocking over chairs. She approaches the librarian.
‘I’d like to borrow a book about the diets of bears.’
The librarian stands up carefully, edges around the desk, backs away to the nature section. 
‘Here,’ he whispers, without looking at her. He looks only at the bear.
Olivia huffs, scans the shelves. She finds a book on bears, there’s a whole chapter on their eating habits. 
‘This will do,’ she says, but instead of showing her library card she pushes the librarian over and just steals the book. 

I don’t know why I stole the book, Olivia says to herself. I don’t know why the bear is here! Was it something I did?
She kicks at stones, feels tears brewing back.
Culpable or not, there was still a bear. Fault had little to do with it. She was indeed a book thief - she didn’t know why she had done that. Perhaps she had simply resented the librarian’s bear-free life. 
She walks home, the bear lumbering close. She crosses roads recklessly; the bear scares the traffic. A lorry slams on brakes, the car behind skids into it. Olivia supposes that might be her fault too. If the bear is her fault, then the consequences belong to her. But she does not know why the bear is here. She kicks at an empty drinks can. It bounces harmlessly against a wall. 
Why is there a bear here? Olivia’s head thumps from thinking. She looks to the sky; it’s a sky with a bear under it. She stares at her feet - feet followed by a bear. Tears roll down her cheek. There is no respite. She doesn’t look at the thing, it makes no difference. No respite.

At home her hands wobble as she fills up the kettle. 
‘I will have a cup of tea,’ she says, ‘a nice, normal cup of tea.’
She can smell the bear, it destroys her appetite for a biscuit. 
‘I’ll read my stolen book,’ she says, tucking it under her arm, carrying her cup to her most comfortable chair. 
She settles herself, putting the cup then the book down on a side table. She will not look at the bear. She pulls her legs up, props the book on her lap, opens it. A piece of paper slips out, a handwritten note. She reads it.
‘If you feed the bear, dear, it will never leave.’
‘I can’t feed it, I can’t not feed it, I can’t defeat it, I don’t want it, I can’t even eat a biscuit coz it smells so bad! What is going on?’
She cries until her tea is cold.
And what does the bear do? 
He curls up and sleeps.

Olivia is hungry and tired. Her mind is a mess, even her gut instinct is puzzled. She sees that the bear is deep in sleep. 
She will sneak away, she thinks, get some distance between them, then she might be able to think and feel clearly. 
She tiptoes out of the house, down the road. How lovely it is, just to walk. Birds in trees are singing, not fleeing; no traffic screeches to a halt, no one is staring. She strolls, hands in pockets, finds enough change clinking there to buy lunch. She orders at the counter, pays, chooses a table. 
How lovely this is, she is thinking, how lovely, how lovely. I shall probably have an idea any minute now.
She says yes to mayonnaise, and heaps of black pepper. She eats the little biscuit that perches on her saucer. She’s aware of the sky outside, cloudless, and how the trees are turning their leaves to gold fire, and children in wellington boots are fire walkers, and everything is magic when there’s nothing to infuriate.

The bear is waiting for her, on the pavement. 
‘Dammit,’ Olivia sighs. Her stomach is heavy, she does not feel ready for a fight. 
They stare at each other for a while. Olivia puzzles over her brief escape - if she had enjoyed the bear not being there, was that, in a way, still thinking about the bear? The absence was bear shaped, so she had not entirely left it behind? 
‘I suppose I have to defeat you then,’ she says. 
They begin to circle. The bear growls. Olivia shows her teeth. Dark claws flex. Fists are clenched tight. Their circle changes direction, they pace, slow, edge closer. Olivia brings her elbows to her ribs. As the bear makes its leap, she punches out, feels her hand squash the dense fur, then her face is in the fur, the bear has her in an embrace, he means to suffocate her. She twists her face free, and kicks the bear in his groin. He yelps, she pushes, kicks more, bites his paw-knuckles - but he hugs back, pulls her up. She kicks him in the belly with little effect, then seizes his throat, finding his windpipe with both her hands. At this, he drops her, she jumps back. A crowd has gathered, and - a gun - she sees that a gun is pointed at the bear.

Olivia stops. She looks at the bear. He tips his head, which makes him seem puzzled.
‘They’ll shoot you,’ she tells him.
The bear sits down. 
‘They’ll shoot you,’ Olivia repeats. 
She imagines the bear lying bloodied and dead, all the glint gone from his eyes. She looks into his eyes. She sees, reflected, autumn leaves, and herself, like she is gazing on the surface of a lake, and the leaves drift there, and perhaps it is midnight and the stars are mirrored too. The whole universe, drifting over an infinite lake, all in the eyes of this: my bear. She feels as though she is floating, in the lake, in the universe, held in that calm night.
‘I’m sorry I was angry,' she whispers, ‘it’s just been a difficult day.’

‘Don’t shoot my bear.’ Olivia faces the crowd. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. We were just being boisterous.’
‘It’s dangerous,’ someone says.
‘Well, of course. He is a bear. I shouldn't have brought him out here. I’ll take him home. Come on, bear.’
She walks away. The bear follows. 
‘I still don’t really want a bear,’ she says, ‘but I’m sort of getting used to you, I suppose.’
He scuffles in the leaves, snorts companionably. They fall to walking side by side. She opens her garden gate to let him through. He turns his head to the woods; he looks back at her, and she sees none of the universe, only his usual sly glinting, before he turns away all together and hefts his bulk towards the trees.

Wednesday, 12 October 2016

Around The Time Of The First Frost





Eight days in, October settles as a backdrop. It has been easy to find every warm moment a June/July sort of day, to greet cooling with a ‘perhaps September?’ To wonder if I had seen August at all. Some years are like this, impervious to months. No less imbued. One need not drift closed. But here I am, taking note of the date, coal dust wiped absently across face, bellyful of rich stew, heavy eyed, snuggled in wool, bare footed. House is a mess, of course, of course: bustling life, not all of it human. Here we are, at a time when blackberries begin an ebb, haws and hips glow bold-red, fennel seed dries, marigolds, nasturtiums bloom: yellow to orange, orange to red. First swathes of bronze foliage, first drop of leaf. House spiders return to roost.
Ten days in, first frost. First defrosting dance around the car in the demi-dark, feet in winter boots. Sky spreads red-orange-yellow, opens up blue; at midday we cast off jumpers. In shops vast boxes of pumpkins have arrived, supermarket shelves are haunted - deep green glitter, web-grey strands, pots of bright blood - love the spectacle, abhor the throwaway.
Twelve days in, jump up! A halloween story calls to be written. Something different this year. No more clues… at my desk, squinting; the dead ash tree still not cut down, white morning slips through its sentinel fingers. Will I have time, I wonder, to make the story work? Hedge birds hop on deceased branches. They have a busy and disdainful air.
‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘do what you can with what you’ve got!’
Outside the fruit press drips all colours of berry.





Wednesday, 14 September 2016

Portraits, Post Summer


Through thick warm air fly globules of delight for field foraging birds: free range slug stuffed with organic homegrown tomatoes, freshly plucked from my polytunnel, and hand flung over a blackthorn hedge. Served with a shout: ‘It’s the circle of life!’
This is a rare day off, but I’m useless at slacking. An assembly of grandchildren would assist. They would love slug hurling and interrupt every other thing. 
I’ve put the last of the lavender to dry, and a batch of rosemary, and calendula. Chives are cut, bagged, frozen. Tomatoes salvaged from predators and blight. Raspberries picked. The washing pile eradicated, for a day. And so, and such until the clouds pink and the sky darkens and a fuzzy moon loiters. Then I sit in my hammock and listen. I hear a mollusc munching. Birds lullaby. Owl.
No further action is required.
No bedtime-stalling supper, no stories to read, no stinky nappy, no ailments or shrieking laughter.
Think of the culprits instead, a little inventory, a list of pictures from an uproarious hall.

Grandchild 1. Aged six. The Daredevil. The Fidget. Adept complainant, secret appreciator. Gives himself away as we watch how still he holds to keep the falcon happy on his arm, and deep in the Otter Park woods, even away from admiring crowds, he crouches to charm and hand feed the deer; and a wallaby; and three turkeys that might have pecked him.

Grandchild 2. Aged five. Tomato Thief, Trainee Cook. Holds her knife upside down, regularly. Can pick up the construction kit and whip up a stable with functional doors. Can laugh at herself. Knows the recipe for Chocolate Peanut Butter. She can say ‘Grandad did it’ with conviction, at least until the laugh bursts out.

Grandchild 3. Aged three. Princess Obsessed. Politically Astute. For whom ‘wearing the trousers’ is appropriate only as a metaphor. She knows her own mind and will articulate it clearly, although violence is kept as an option. She puts her hand on her hip and quotes: ‘It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.’ Growing too big for her party trick now - to balance on one of her father’s hands.

Grandchild 4. Aged two. Reluctantly verbal. Joyously defiant. He knows well his primal feelings. He will sit on a beach in buoyant calm, creating a garden from sticks, pebbles, feathers, seaweed. He considers each material before its placing. Loves to stargaze. Loves to do everything his brother does. Strong on the monkey bars, though his arms don’t quite span the gaps. He holds on and grins regardless.

Grandchild 5. Newborn. She cries. She hears her Nanna speak to her and quiets. She is figuring her place; last to date in this line of successions. 


Grandchild 1

Grandchildren 3 & 5

Grandchild 4

Grandchild 2, and Granma 

Friday, 9 September 2016

Early Autumn: An Absurdist, Berry Picking




In my mind the seasons have been separate gods.
Spring, a maiden, moving ice to melt; summer, a predator, hot, basking, growly; autumn, a russeted stag, richly coloured, rarely frivolous; winter, a skeletal beast, empathetic, stoic, truthfully harsh.
This year’s transition differs. Summer, gently, in the thick of mist, becomes Autumn.

It’s not that time has existed in seasonal boxes, rather I had thought of each year-quarter as a thing outside of time; eternal, revisiting. Time was something we viewed them through.
This year, something in my mind steps though the window.
One thing becomes; replaces, supersedes; another thing, an evolution, and more precious for its brevity.
I have run with gods for years and years, I have knelt to marvel, not unseeing, not unmoved. But this year? It is only I, feeling heat soothe out of earth, observing leaves slowly gilded, reaching my fingers to a ripened blackberry; yet more amazed, more alive to the miracle than I ever remember. The simpler it gets, the better.

One day at a time. Yes, this.

In a hand mirror note purple lips, check purple teeth. A royal colour. Grin. Beyond precious, perceive: life’s grand absurdity. I ask myself the question - supposing I had been a success?
(Materially, I mean, in a career.)
Even as I’m laughing a rainbow half arches through cloud.
Spilt ink, the most important kind.



Monday, 22 August 2016

Two Summer Nights, Ten Days Apart





1
In the dark we lay, in hammocks, wine tables at hand, each with a full glass; watching Perseid meteors, arrows of red-gold in Milky Way foam. Laugh, loudly, forgetting it is midnight.
Ability to be delighted: this too we are grateful for.
Arrows or eels, foam or powder - how a thing is seen, always debatable. Glass half full or half empty? Refillable! We shout, forgetting time has crept past midnight.

2
Storm winds galvanise clouds.
In the day, sun pierced each break; the escapees had dropped rain, heavy pocketfuls, like stolen scree.
Roses, grown tall, lash at porch glass.
Windows have their latches tested. Roofs are pried.
Too warm, to have everything shut. We would gape, separated from moving air.
It is beyond vantage here - but we feel it, keening - the weight of the wild sea.



Friday, 19 August 2016

Coruscation





Rivers run slick with it.
Cut fields hewn from it.
Bared skin, too, holds a shine of sun.
Into this time slot, to her own unhurried schedule, Grandchild 5 makes an appearance.
Pink-gold, cute as a vintage tea cup.
She slumbers under day’s fine light, wakes in the dark.
Grandchild 3 ponders sisterhood. She observes that babies make parents tired. Could they could be responsible for rain that cancels a trip to the park? Still, she deigns to kiss the infant on her forehead, an experiment in early love.
‘Granma,’ she whispers, ‘look - I’ve got jewellery.’
She shows each amulet on her new anklet. How the star shape has a sparkle in the centre of it. Her very own sparkle. Granma agrees it is beautiful. The gleam of it. How it is crafted. 



Saturday, 6 August 2016

Restoration





Low and hot, the weather was affecting us. We thought in deficits, in morbid fractals. Lost, we retraced an old path: we went to the beach, of course. Trod ourselves over the flat stones, the fine sand, dumped our bags down, set the dogs free.
Dog will plunge in, we know. Fat Beagle will wade to his ample waist and stare out while we decipher his expression: something at once dignified and put-upon, satisfied and wary.
A rare piece of sea glass is discovered, green, the best kind. Into a bag pocket it is hoarded. Our possessions left below the tide line for the tide is far away and still pulling back.
The sea must be clambered to, and swimming is hilarious, for one can only slither between the rounded rocks, and laugh, and our laughing is sea spray, is wings in flight, is sunlight on facets of wave.
Up to his waist Fat Beagle stands. Dog runs so much she lames a leg.
Our hot car smells like seaweed and dog farts. The journey home is gladly broken.
Now we sit eating chips at the beach cafe, while canines slumber under benches: now we have good ice cream. On damp skin the breeze chills.
Everything delicious.
At home, one coffee before work, in the hammock, of course.
That evening, driving home, anvil clouds laid with gold - that is the horizon.
Of course, if one is on course.


Thursday, 21 July 2016

Hot Evening, After The Beach





At midnight still butter pools in its dish.
Dog rouses for a drink, pads back towards her bed, lies on the floor, sighs defeat.
Ice chinks in nettle beer. The clouds have swallowed a full moon, and nothing cools in digestion.
We lie like butter in our salt puddles, dream of emerging, evolved.
For now, like Dog, we surrender.
Pad, pad, slowly to our beds.
Sand is welded to our soles. Close eyes, recall that push, that cooling incoming tide.
Dog twitches in her sleep. Mr hums a snore.
There’s no sleep here for me.
Downstairs, where the windows are left open, a freed moon shines.




Sunday, 10 July 2016

Five Days And One Night In A Dowdy Summer





Where clouds are rift, blue shows. Rain holds. Air holds damp, birdsong, scents of earth. Palette of the day, silver-greys, green, dots of bright flower.
A heart is prised open, this beauty stuffed in. Seeking remedy, not respite.

Yesterday was sun and rain. Foxgloves, bolt upright, held their colour. I stole a rose to make tea; first to breathe the steam, then to sip. I had coffee, rich and deep. I had banana tea, sweet and cheerful.
This morning the sky is variant silver.
Coffee brews. Wild strawberry pancakes on the hob; one gets burnt when Dog gives chase to a cat and must be herself chased back inside perimeters.
Dog feels sorry for herself, confined. We pretend stern.

Petal frail, she sends apologies: I can’t do anything, she says.
But you’ve done it all, we say, it’s our turn now and that’s how it comes to balance.
Granma Grace smiles. I like her without the dentures, somehow, it represents her being her, no matter what is reduced; that kind spirit being irreducible.
It’s not good for you, I know, I say, just good for us, we finally get to give back to you some of what you have given to us, do you see? She practically guffaws, pats my hand.
‘My grandson told me that, the same thing,’ she says.
I tell his father those words on the way home.
He need say nothing, only watch ahead.
Sunset’s fingers touch each car - transmute, melt to gold, and in granite hills flowers bloom.

Earth winnows into butterflies; dark underwings that smudge in this air.
Evidence of badgers; Dog stands, tail awag, over her finding: one well seeded turd.
Evidence of foxes: leftover feathers.
The crop-cover leaves: part-wild, tangle-pretty.
Here a horizon is heavy, and hazy, is a field of blue flowers blending to sky.

A noise in the night was a thing pushed over -fallen over?
Until I went to investigate, and it wasn’t.
A second noise was a shotgun.
A vermin shoot?
From the window, then, as the rain taps, as a pale rose ghosts against the glass, I spy fireworks. I don’t what was celebrated, down beyond the trees, only that I laughed, and stood to be surprised.

Early morning, bright sun piercing.
Early afternoon, we are walking, Dog is running: down by Roadford Lake, eating ice cream in the rain.
A roast dinner cooks.
A waterlily flowers.





Friday, 17 June 2016

Spellbinding




Four shifts at my new job completed. That’s 96 hours, I am surprised to calculate.
Twice as many as planned but there’s a staffing crisis, and therefore an opportunity to redress our finances. I have a list of things we should buy - we aren’t up to making our own power tools just yet, for example.

Mr has been minding the garden. I come back to it delighted. Beans grow, cauliflowers fight slugs, nasturtiums flow: stories, progress, magic. Air shimmers, heavy with birdsong, with imminent rain.

I take up a spade to clear the edge of the compost bins. Bindweed and nettles encroach, they hardly need compost to boost growth rates.

It is glorious to be outside.

Tenderly, pull grasses back from the old cat’s grave, which lies just behind the footings of our composting space. Tiny pink stems in my hand - as though a new cat is growing - one feels a kind of awe, otherworldly, and laughing at the thought, simultaneously. The last roots are scraped back as rain falls. Bird noise clusters in hedges.

I shall be tired, I’m sure, from the extra hours. I have not given up my teaching or my gardening, or my kitchen apothecary experiments. The new job is caring for a client who has advanced Multiple Sclerosis, however, so I cannot feel at all sorry for myself, not when here I am, walking, talking, eating, sneaking a wee round the back of the shed, shielded by thorn leaves.

Not when the wider world drips through with anger and fear, and I have this green solace.

Words, too: I have words to tend, to feed, to share. So obvious I forget to mention it!

If I were the last human on earth I would read my stories to the trees, I think: they would humour me, though they have little to gain from my words, and may not approve of paper. 
I imagine they would understand: the writer is not so solitary, she grows her words to connect.