Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

After a roast feast, thinking of Solstice resolutions, put Dog in the back of the old red car, drive to the car park at Feather Tor. We are heading out, just Dog and I, to that intriguing stack but it's past mid-afternoon on the shortest day and that is not the easiest route without a torch. I have my phone for a torch and emergency contact. I have misplaced my gloves, and though the rest of me is adequately togged, this is a sign of poor boding. We change tack, head up Cox Tor instead. It has a nice clear path up and down, level with the car park. At the top the wind is impressive. Stop to take a picture, holding on to the vantage point and my phone: my camera, my torch, my emergency contact; is almost whipped from my fingers. Uh oh. I decide it will be easier to descend shielded, and cross back to the easy path: which at this height on the tor is also easy to miss, especially if it has been raining and the terrain is boggy, slippery, littered in pointy rocks and a person i

Little Granddaughter gives instruction as to where one may hide. In the launderette it is a wedge of space between the supersize tumble dryer and the oddly angled wall. This will be the last place to be searched. It will be her turn, then: she will hide exactly there and it will be the last place to look. In the dryer towels steam, and t-shirts and a stream of clothes, and the twenty pences and the pound coins drop in, till all the washing is dry. Yesterday on the beach the wind blew wave spume and rain so we headed back towards the car and arrived patched in damp so we changed our clothes and bought an ice cream. 'I like a beach,' the flutey voice says, cuddled in with Teddy, a fine vanilla cone, a purple plaid blanket. 'I don't like a sea.' 'Why not?' 'It's crying.' Between wipes across the windscreen the scene is clear: heavy clouded sky, unstill waters, the wave spray leaping, catching low light. 'It's crying?&#

Storm Approaching Water pours brown out of the tap, but hot, restfully hot. Window chinked open to let out steam. Swamp meets spa, lying in mud coloured water, peering through fog. Beyond the glass, trees lash, boughs crack, things whistle, flap, blow away. Storm air tendrils in, gentle-curious. Small dark bodied spiders tuck up in corners. One taupe slug navigates peels of paint, over on the wall where the mould is boldest. The geranium is making an effort. This thought, as the water pours, brown and hot, scooped up for rinses in the plastic pot that once held sweets at the Shaolin Circus: That not in spite of this but because of it, happiness is here . Dog loves Swamp Spa

Day starts, slow as stone, a carved opal In the earth warmth beds down deep There's a level, the rabbits know it Where the frost can't reach Under the window trundles trailer loads Of rich stinky dung, heaped and steamy They are building a castle of it At the top of the field: views of the river valley

Drab weather, indeterminate, damped, that's how it seems, looking out. Indoors smells of spray paint. A cold air stream runs from the door to the open window, brings an earthy edge. Dog is pacing. Metallic-sticky hands wipe down the front of the old smock: a pause to count: twenty years, or more or not much less, of paints layering over blue cotton. Hung up now with silver sparkles drying, a clodge of glue, old colours flaking. Heavyweight rain drummles the lean-to roof. Waterproofs are pulled on. Four oversized papier-mâché baubles glimmer in the cool living room, secretly stuffed with sweets. Dog is prancing. On green wooded paths, precipitation gives a rich shine. Winter's kingdom is deceptive. It blurs and covers. Under the surface life waits, curled in seedpod wrappers. Dog is both ecstatic and replete.

Christmas lights are paused. The extension lead is redirected for a laptop battery boost. Boy clicks and complains of hitting bedrock. We have a houseguest this week: the two lads lean in to the screen and comment. Can't you- Click click. No this is as fast as you can travel, except falling out of the sky down- Click click. Oh, yeah, or there's, you got some smoke I guess- Click click. Dun-du-lalala, dun-du-lalala- Click click. Dog sleeps in her basket, deposed from sofa dominance. Dried mud flecks her coat from our earlier walk; from the storm thrown woodlands where the boughs knocked and the earth coughed pheasants up. Click click. A few Christmas cards are squeezed on the mantelpiece, in amongst the various items: a wooden model man, vegetable seeds, wedding photo, address labels. Click click. Have you ever made a cannon- Click click. No- You haven't lived! I'll show you- Click click. In comes Mr, shuffles himself a sofa spot. The la

In the car I am doing the flipside of a road rage: the untrammelled voluminous song. Sorry, pedestrians, for the flinch the noise caused: but not for the noise. What tune it held or dropped is irrelevant. The lack of trammel is the crux. In a sky of black glass the half-moon shears off rays, squint-bright. Stars are set, expertly: some sort of algorithm one suspects. No matter what I write about, I write about the transcendence of fear. Not the conquering of fear itself, only the debilitation of it.  I write appreciation, the most useful and genuine form of love.  I write how to measure the weight of your life.  The more I write like this the more I think it, feel it, live it.  I look for it. One who looks stands back from the crowd. If we all look there should be no crowd: only company. And after the journey of song and thoughts, the old red car reverses up the driveway. For further entertainment there is wine to drink, and watching a bellied moon get stuck in a t

Not expecting company the cows Were shy: they had not brushed their hair Perhaps: but these are tiny baby cows A-scared of me, the visitor explains Her hair all feral in the wintry air, her hands Drape palm up over the fence, a gesture Placatory to the shuffling herd. An affable Insouciance ensues.

Why does lemon go with fish? Zen question. Pluck this from here and that from there. Squeeze it. Marinade. Fizz some ghee in a flat pan. Gleeful. Green beans, shiny in steam. Wedges cut from root vegetables crunch up, warm coloured. Salt sweet and peppered. Ghee melts, biscuity. Fish from a river, fruit from a tree. Doled out on warmed plates. Some rub, some squish; agave, cocoa, apricot, rye with butter; there's a pudding. Sap, bean, dried fruit, grain, battered milk. How the world looks after us. The more we reciprocate, the more we can relax.

Over the summer an oak tree fell into the river and took the form of a dragon: a whiskered Chinese dragon, playful, amenable to our games. Even Dog clambered onto the ridged back and splashed back happy to the water. Storms came, in the autumn: an elemental surge, bigger than riverbanks. Under the squall and flood, the Oak Dragon disappeared, or the soul of it was freed, or both, we could not be sure. Today was ice bright, impetuous. The river calls though the water has levelled down. Familiar rocks reappear. The bank edges are changed: soft sanded mud re-moulded, the drooping tree snapped. Dog swims in open water, where the Dragon had stood. Fast paced the water moves, unimpeded. Snatches of branch stick at the opposite bank, inside a shadow, a ghost-spot, a dark echo. Downstream, revealed, the body of an oak, a former dragon: not dead: transformed. Progressed. Dog sniffles after ducks. Ducks hide in the old dragon's curves. Across the winter c

This day starts in the dark, with Little Granddaughter, Monsters Inc, Mr Small and Willy, a dreaming chimp. She speaks as she finds: Christmas, jumpers, ponies, chocolate… where is the monkey… there is the monkey and he's asleep and he's singing and he's painting one banana 'nother one banana! Streams of consciousness converge, diverge, trickle, surge. She sets up a bookshop, is called Shopkeeper now. Teddy rests in Dog's basket. Dog sighs. Nam-ma hauls up one fringed blind, to watch the sky, leaves one shut, for warmth. Over a peaked range, solid on the horizon, between frayed edges the light lifts. 'What would you recommend, Shopkeeper?' Nam-ma buys two giraffes and some giraffe clothes while her coffee brews.

Little Grandson requests some Hide and Seek. For his entertainment Granma picks a flagrant Hide, simply picking up a duvet that is lying on the sofa bed in the multipurposed play and guest room and draping it over her head. Boots, bright red boots, are sticking out underneath. Footsteps she hears: the closet door squeak, the spoken 'No, not under the bed. She's not in here, Grandad.' I am in here, Granma thinks. I am a person sized floral patterned lump stood over these red boots: somehow Little Grandson sees only floral bedding and has not registered the change in layout. 'Are you sure?' Grandad is in the room. 'Really sure?' That's the voice of Uncle Boy, a bit tired and gravelly after 11 miles of kayak with a sludgy partner. 'Yes,' the Grandson says, no trace of doubt. Even though the duvet is stuttering suppressed laughter. Granma, Little Grandson and Uncle Boy sit to a table laden; several cheeses, meats, a pât

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.

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

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.

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.

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  

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. '