A small convoy of Nam-ma, Little Granddaughter and Dog greet the ghosts of horses through morning mist. They tread their dew-proof boots:
'You boots, me boots, one two boots!'
up the side track in the ploughed field.
'One boot, five boots, one moon, round and round.'
Moon in the blue sky, halved, ends like froth, is somewhere between broken egg and breaking wave.
'Go sleep, moontime!'
She has an expression of a person who is pretending to be cross for comic reasons. Then she clips Dog's lead onto Nam-ma's shorts and this is very funny.
From here, those rubber booted steps are set towards honey and toast.
It develops into the sort of hot, blue, shiny day where plans such as finishing the accounts are bypassed in favour of more scenic things, such as fixing a stable door to a polytunnel project, such as a fever pitch of writing by a wide open window, such as walking over the beach into the sea: where the waves break messy like the edge of a broken moon and a sultry brain can cool. Ten espressos is a lot for one day.
Shush, dear brain.
Ride into the white mass, over the top, let the board belly flop.
The bonfire is lit. Two salty bodies sit and say how fire has a quality of unruly devouring; it licks, it spits. Supper was roast pork pie, a glass of homemade red.
They look up, they say:
'Oh, and there's stars too!'
No sight of the moon.
'Must be asleep.'