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Prefix Disco- Day

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Eyes scrunched like old raisons. Ears water plugged. Feeling discontinued. Crawling through words on metaphoric hands, illustrative knees. Or is it discombobulated, that feeling? Discomforture? Disci- Disco- means a disc, a phonograph, something that can turn around. Crawling in woods, under growth, literal, actual. A circular route. Dog's tail is like a map, a propeller. Round and round and round. Notably round. Rain on the quarry pool, the flat mirror, broken. Around a tree a vine has crept and died; rotted, snapped; the thought comes: what clings will not survive. When the rain stops, the water will still; flat; reflect. Discipline with its connotations of restriction: it is how the word is viewed. It is not the crepuscular vine. Open water reflects it better.

Winter Sun

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Whatever reason the alarm clock gives to wake me up, it's wrong. It's unreasonable. It is told names that suit it but they are mumbly, unintelligibly tired. No offence is given. Warm clothes, fried eggs and coffee: they bring coherence to the murk. The car is clear of ice: that is a better start: the old trick with a bed sheet has unfixed the fastenings of a late night frost. Condensation, that is the worst of it. The heater blares all the way. A car park hard to find in the dark, barely marked, is, ne'ertheless, found. Nothing stirs but us and the sound of crow-birds. Boy yomps on: bemissioned (like bewitched only self inflicted.) I see his snow trousers catch first light before he blends to furze and granite. I will have a shot more of coffee before treading after, bitter hot and heavenly. It is warm to walk, and undisciplined; all those paths that run off, fall in streams, squash under grey stone bolus; littered by bone and dung; that no sooner snu

Gilt And Flash

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How dull the houses were before: with no baubles, no twinkling shapes, no metallic fuzz. Simple reflective reminders: gaudy fun: it all stands brave in the subzero dark. Last year, we say: the wire frame reindeer on the porch roof by the school, how the wind laid it on its back, blinking lights, every night slumped this way or that. Drunk! This year the porch sports multi-coloured lines, a mock-ice terraced palace. Between the gilt and flash of civilized spots, trees throw down leaves. Underneath is such character, dancing naked at the roadside! The car rattles down tunneled ribs, a bony esophagus of branches.

What, Fox?

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Pale thing whirls: car slows on the night-shade tarmac. What, Fox? What are you doing? The usual fox has a slink to it, crafty, self-contained, avoidant of traffic. This one tacks the road, visually entertaining, like watching an unnecessarily angry person shout and fumble-drop things in a supermarket or other inappropriately public place, until one considers the root of the behaviour: what pain, what despair, to sanction this? One turns an eye inward, then. Compassion for the tragicomic: imagined as a silvery noise, a coin dropping into an empty dish. Headlamps bounce light off untidy fur. No evidence of injury. So, what? Whatever has ruined Fox's day, or minute, or life, it skitters down a hill, muttering, leaves us to baffle.

Portraits In Light

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Love is a light that draws the face As a leaf is drawn: simple, profound Nourished from weather and dirt Something in sight every day, comforting And sometimes the sun angles: or a lamp… From the table where I sit, tapping keys Glance up to sculptural shadows of the avocado leaves A green leather sofa holds a dog and her dreams And a man who is watching the television: all of us Under the cheap kindly brightness of an electric bulb  

A Yule Tale 2013

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This year's festive contribution stems from reading about the Mongolian Winter Solstice: deeply spiritual, community orientated and amply catered.  Ice In The Evergreen Leaves have dropped from the birch trees. Silver bark shines against bare dark earth for a while; then the black streaks are stark against a backdrop of snow. We are no strangers to cold here. This is autumn snow. Our winter starts at the solstice point, spans nine lengths of nine days, drops into chill; like a body without a heartbeat, Grandmother says. 'Maybe this year the earth will stay dead.' She says this every year. I think she believes it. I love the ice on the evergreens, where the sun touches, that's my glimmer of hope. 'Fetching the water for Grandmother, Monkh?' 'Yes, Vachir. Is winter close? It feels close.' Vachir laughs. 'How thick was the ice?' I hold out a finger, horizontal, to show him. He nods. '

Baby Boy

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They are that small: who can remember? It's not been so long but still we puzzle it. He has a frown. It is troublesome to be born, he says, with this frown and his closed eyes and his scrunched posture. Oh, we say: Baby Boy it will be lovely, you'll see, later, when your eyes can sort shape from colour. Ask your cousin, she has been here for years: two, nearly two and a half. She puts a hand on your hair, it's soft as her own rabbit. You hold her finger- he's got hands , she tells us: her eyes open up wide, all mystery and appreciation. Little Grandson had said all along: when the baby comes, my brother . He is at school when we visit, forging ahead, reconnaissance stuff. Of nature tables and Lego, of numbers, letters, hierarchy, protocol, dinosaurs and biscuits, he has knowledge to impart: gravitas with giggles: such a wry smile he has: those boys, we will be saying: oh, those boys! Every day, every minute: babies are born: ergo: every day, every minute

Waiting Begins Around 7pm

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Anxious happy: calm is the desired state. Think of the mind as flat water. On the shore so many fine grained, foliated, metamorphic rocks: perfect pieces of creation, the perfect size to hold, smooth, multi-tonal. It won't be long before a few bounce out, skimming rings; a visual echo. These waves descend from surface to sediment: they are dippy, in their hither-thither, deep in their love, predictable, wonderful. Little Grandson is with his cousins. He needs a distraction or two. A shore of stones would do well for him. When he was done with the tricks of magicking spray: like walls of water: he would see how a wall could be built on the land. A line of the stones, layered up. A house, or a castle: something more permanent than the splash and no less charmed. In the garden will be enough trees to feed a herd of friendly dinosaurs. Maybe he will sit on the wall and look at the reflective water, at how the world can be upside down and this is how things are.

Pumpkin Bona Fide

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Down to the river curiosity draws booted steps. Today is a day to kick off boots, if the washed squash is still there, oddly trapped: wade out to find out if it's real, plastic or other as yet uncertain thing. It is there, an orange shine between weeded rocks. It still seems unexpected. The shallows are shallower, today: the boots have clearance, an inch at least below the rim. There's a  comprehensible  path for the rescue, which contains mild peril. The water pushes, impressively weighted. Rocks underfoot are loose, and slippery. Measured steps, practiced calm, a hand stretched to steady on a halfway boulder. And then, the squash is lifted: proves itself real, being flawed and open under the waterline. I can see seeds in the cavity. Steadily, back track, lift it higher on the bank, out of the flood plain into a bed of moss and dry leaf.

An Ice Glaze

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Subdued sun: noon has early evening light. Plants are frost-brittle. A quality of stoppage rules the sky until a distant shotgun ruffles up the pigeons. The hedge is warmly hued, under the glistening freeze: if the sun were fiercer today it would steam, like the neck of a serpent in a torrid swamp. Over the roll of the earth Dog and I stroll, happily absorbed, homewards. On the couch a damp Dog has snuck. In through windowpanes a brief lift of sun: it compliments the handsome leaves of the avocados.

An Unforaged Squash

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A tonnage of leaf from pale to brassy rustles like brushes on cymbals. The river silvers and suddenly a pumpkin is caught between two rocks. I want to fetch it but the water would flood my boots. I don't why I didn't take off the boots: to avoid the cold, in spite of adventure? If I had reached it I would have placed it above flood level and wondered all year: will pumpkins then grow wild in the woods? It was smooth and unsmashed so perhaps it was plastic. I would have brought it home to decorate the garden or tumble into a recycle bin. Whatever the truth: I stood in the shallows, brimmed with marvel.

Underdogs Happy Dogs

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The air is notably colder. It condenses, crunches into surface ice. Coffee flask rolls in the passenger foot well: glugs, reassuring. Bags are packed and loaded. The address is not difficult to find. The house is cute. Here is a child I saw last as waving white fuzz on an ultrasound. Here are the dogs I walked: three years ago over the flattened sands of Castle Rock. Here we are, eating curry and talking names for a newer baby while a blonde elf child scores the dresses on a dance show. A Staffordshire terrier curls underfoot. The other, the scruffy part Lurcher, sleeps on his cushion. You should know his story: that once my friend was having a terrible day and sat on the steps of a theatre. A neglected fur tangle snuck up to sit in comfort with her. She saw the burns on his whippy body and could only take him home. There was talk of the Dog Warden, initially. If we can't home him… the man said. He has a home, she decided. A future. Curry simmer wobbles the stovetop pan

Ice And Fire

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In the night the world is crystallised. In the distance is traffic noise: here only one human, a cat, a few chickens, a dog stirs. Sun edges a dark cloud much as flame edges a fry pan. In the field Dog wakes the wild birds, springs two roe deer. She catches nothing, cares not, exhales happy steam. In pale cloud scatters the moon is camouflaged. From the horizon a puzzling dot grows into a hot air balloon.

A Colour Wash

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Day cold bright in blue, in luminous cloud Washing scarcely dries on the rotary line Though the wind breathes all over it A day does what it does so a fire is struck A half load of t-shirts dangle in the polytunnel The grass grows overlong underneath Indoors, the wet towels and trousers of today's wash Hued inky, plum, pitch-black Drape the amber wood of the old clotheshorse Silver change gathers in a pot, for later, for the launderette.

A Candle, Creamy White

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An hour's yomp to Feather Tor and back. Mud sucks boots. Wind slaps face. Coats inflate, puff the walkers up ping-ping like popcorn. The watch is consulted. It gives seven minutes to climb the slabbed granite and wrestle the air. We are on time for Little Granddaughter, who has been playing and needs glasses and an eye test and has not drawn a picture of a cat: the very idea! But she will see the cats at Nanny's house and they have hair and she has hair but cats don't have glasses or a eye test. She relates this information to Nanny. 'Peppa Pig!' we say to each other, remembering the episode. Pedro Pony sports a fine pair of spectacles. Rain falls, heavy, smacks an acorn onto the windscreen. Cardboard is coaxed to flame. Gravy simmers on the Rayburn hob. A table candle pulses, creamy white.

Crouching Winter

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After the frost moon hail falls. Cells of ice hold tight On the weathered planks of the pallet table. The sun wakes up cold, splashes watery light. Leaf by leaf colour blows from trees. There's a perceptible breath of winter: It pads closer: a thing luxuriant Stark, sparkling, perilous.

Night Exposure

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The moon is a summoning eye All things are drawn to it. A line of hopes and fears strings From here to there; swings shakily In that peerless pearling light. There is no denial. The moon gazes on everything Serene, steadfast, startling.

Soul Blazing

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The earth turns our view out of day, into night. A deepening mottle of cloud, silk-soft, harmonious, settles low.  All is shadow in the antiqued light. Eyes adapt, ears are confused: there is music: the percussion of which is traced to water twisting in a ridged drainage pipe. Cool air on skin; scent of wet grass. A lick of dark coffee, lingering. Like the water tumbles a convergence comes. It is enough, in life, sufficient of itself, to have this sentient experience: to be delighted by it. Anything that is not part of this is superfluous. It is not what is done; not endured, adored, embraced nor denied; it is the perception of it. It is walking through this blend of evening shades, soul centred, blazing.

Steering Boots

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If I like a path I like to walk it to the end. Most often it steers to another path. Maybe I'll choose this one, maybe I won't: it's all whim, here in the park where the wind plucks trees bare under a vague sky. I like to walk where I walk, off the path prescribed in tarmac: locate fallen leaves, amble under portly old firs, stand, observant, on the concentric lines of the stump. Hands and knees are the best kind of cold: wakeful, not painful. A random taupe leaf sticks to my boot's toe.

House Of The Aptly Shambolic

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Hail strike on windowpanes wakes us before the day has begun; one of those frustrating days where simple tasks are complex traps although no crockery slips off the draining board and tea is prepared in time and there are moments where rainbows loop themselves in cloud even if Dog sighs, disappointed in a shortened walk; my phone case is easily mended and Little Granddaughter says 'So'ry Nam-ma,' unasked, sincerely. (So'ry being word ointment for situations in which, somehow, something is broken or food or beverage, somehow, makes contact with carpet.) It feels colder than the gauge reports.  The night sky is clear, in part; three quarters of a rotund moon exquisitely visible. On the way home we stop to buy milk. Car park trees, shivery in the wind chill stand isolate, planted apace. Home is warm, dishevelled; has a smell of coal smoke, wet dogs, boiled vegetables. It is, in short, a suitable mess.