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Night Road Home

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The night and the road are the same shade. There's no demarcation but the car tyres keep to earth. An ice mist breathes on anything stationary. The car tyres roll steady to the door of the warmed cottage. Coals orange as a low sun behind the door of the little Rayburn stove. Boys on the sofa, slouchy, watching a laptop because the television broke. But when they demonstrate the screen goes on and the volume works this time. -Pah! In a pan on the electric hob, leftovers fuse with added chilli. A sip of cold coffee waits in a cup and a dog dreams in her basket. Good news pings on a phone: a boy baby, they haven't settled on a name.

Lucky Plastic Cat

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The blinds had not been dropped last night, in the living room. The morning was free to enter in, stripe the room in light. At the window Maneki Neko sits, sunrise facing, beckoning in, her plastic-cat eyes slinky and unblinking. Maybe like my camera she sees the distance as a bloom of searing white. Maybe like me she sees unleafed trees; heavy trunks, intricate twigs; against silvery river mist; clouds painterly pink, fiery orange, over a hill; a midnight green hill; a landscape in monochrome and colour. Maybe her sight is no more than the work of the solar powered sensor: maybe even that is imaginary, merely fancy. But I like the way her arm clicks, her purposeful composure. And in view of this, sat at the table where coffee steams from a regal mug, I grant her perfect vision.

Cinnamon Smoke

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Sat on the mismatched dark wood dining chair: look to an unseen distance: stare, calm, wait for words that are looking for somewhere, for what is a word that is never spoken? An absence, a nothing, unplaced. A scented candle in a tumbler on the mantelpiece: a thing specific. Waxy sputter, the last dance of a fat low flame, catches the reflective curve of glass, softer and softer as it shrinks; blue glimmer, red bud, glowing memento, dark wick, captured soot. Like any candle might, recognisable. This one leaves cinnamon smoke.

Friday Night

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Heavy eyed, work done. Pages of the novel stack up. The washing up, ignored. Gold plates cake crumbed. Coffee cups everywhere. Clothes are washed, their colours part of the changing design scape we have here. Darkish colours today. A rack of socks in variant textures. The fireplace houses burnt out tea lights. One day we'll take out the pillow that blocks the chimney draft. Toast marshmallows on modest flames. We'll use the barbeque forks or improvise with twigs. Listen to vinyl, to old record hiss. Admire the shadows of the avocado leaves, the poke of ginger shoot, the spiking aloe, the umbrella geranium. We're not sure if the pineapple will survive, but it's always worth a try. Arms on the wooden artist's model are open wide, embracing. It has a shadow that does the same .

A Breakfast Vignette

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It was Thursday so I had breakfast with a lion. 'MMM. Nuh one nee'bix please,' the lion said, examining a smudge on its polka dot tights. 'Do lions eat Weetabix?' By which I meant- are you sure you're a lion? This prompted head scratching and a rumpled brow: whereupon the lion became a wolf, a howling wolf, who taught us all to howl. (With a full moon scheduled this made so much more sense.) A wolf does like a Weetabix, it seems; and making spiders from shadows and baking cakes. We made the first cake out of a magnetic construction kit. Delicious!

Fiction From Fact

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Above the lights of city roads, the moon is close to full. Artifice draws the eye first: the impersonal, the alienation; city clichés: things expected. A view from a car, too, a further segregation. Other traffic is little more than white noise, a concentrated, constant background. Tableaux of reality flit by: outside a bar a man gestures come in, another man raises his hand, nods his head. They wear similar coats. In the chip shop a girl leans over the counter to hand a child some greasy food. Little hands reach up, fingers splayed wide. Cashiers in the supermarket uncover a misdemeanour. It makes one of them cross, and one of them shrugs off the care, and the others say it is wrong but they can see how it happened. The song of their voices is recognisably human over the drone of air conditioning. Strips of light overhead, like a surgical theatre, like a laboratory. The numb dread that no one observing will care for a stray from elsewhere. Though what will happen? Look at

View From The Dung Heap

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This morning's view from the dung heap It is not about the gold rush, the future glimmer, the when or the if. That's a dream only. Sometimes you might go chasing after a lure when all you love and need isn't perceived exactly where you are. Oh my honeyed sweets! You chase and chase that mirage till you get close, And it's not what you thought Or you get too tired. I get tired to watch it, but the rest of my view from this fecund dung heap Is clear. Funny isn't it? Easier to be didactic In this erratic form of verse. I would like to build a house Bursting with viriditas Flame heated It's fine to have an intention But not to be distracted: so here we are Learning how to propagate And cooking on bonfires And opening our palms to the heat of the Prosperous fire. Angry Birds, early version Shadow tortoise eats shadow leaf.

Banana Mondae

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Rain drops like tiny pats of encouragement. Hard work walking when the ground gives way. Sodden earth sucks at boots, slurps at paws. It all is as it is to Dog, happily, unless a thorn wedges in a pad, but only as long as the thorn wedges. Released, straight back to the brambles she goes, bearing no grudge. A fine line perhaps, between stupid and optimist? The determination to be dour can't be any smarter. Quality of life is the deciding factor. In a roundabout way this is why we have ice cream for supper. Homemade chocolate sauce is upstaged by the hotplate heated banana: thrown on the Rayburn hob it twitches till we laugh tears. (Next time there'll be a camera on standby: this time we were struck incapable.)

Reacquiant

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Finding some minutes to spare, a stop in a coffee shop occurs: the first in how long? Unknown. A sense of disjointedly familiar, like a friend you reconnect with and you don't know much of their recent history. You weren't with them when they bought those shoes, for example, but you would still pick that pair off any shelf as representative of their style. A seat is taken by a long window. The glass is portioned out in thick-rimmed plastic rectangles. Light shades overhead, circles within circles, echo the placing of cup on saucer. Retro modernity. A man is asking the manager how to access the wi-fi connection, is answered something about a password. There's a dash of urgency on this request. Whatever he has been typing must be ready to be sent somewhere. Staff talk, over by the till, say something about 2am; no, yes, 2am, it was. There's no door at this coffeehouse, it's designed to be an integral part of a revamped supermarket. On the other sid

Perhaps A Sandwich

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Let's have an adventure we said, since the sun is shining. Just a small afternoon adventure, and then perhaps a sandwich. New territory will do us good. We squeeze a car through dark moss lanes, find a wooded valley with lingering mist: exactly the sort of place. The boys take pictures of it, for reference and for the way the light plays. We talk of these scenes, leisurely, as we pass; the path is wide and almost level. The different sorts of green; in depth and texture; how our hands feel the shade. How the firs seemed to march, down to the water, out of the backlit blaze, like out of a spaceship. This is how it looks, to us, as we stretch up hands to catch some warm rays. They come in peace. Ease of progress on this pale gravel trail. Bikes go by and toddlers on trikes tow parents. Shadow goes by, and pattern and bright sky, filtering. Dogs on leads and muddied, free: all tails wag. A pony makes a fuss, crossing the stream; we turn to watch and see our own

Lunch

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A sky as grey as a neglected net curtain, no wind to stir it. Sat on the front steps, a bone coloured bowl balanced on a knee: yesterday's stew. Pewter spoon and extra pepper. Bird shapes on branches gather, clatter. Up on the lawn, the old wood cart is mis-parked, and chairs askew, and teapots full of rainwater line up on the pallet table. Dew beads linger on grass. Cat, rapt by this proximity of stew, creaks over, sits on the drive. Sparkle in her age-cloudy eyes. The spoon makes a pretty sound in the round bowl, chasing the last burst of tomato. One aromatic pepper dot decorates licked teeth.

Helpfulish

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Nam-ma brushes the dirt out of the living room. Little Granddaughter has also a broom and guess which way she brushes? A fluffed line of dust and Dog hair gathers in front of the bookshelf. Little Granddaughter helps also direct the walking of Dog, from the vantage of Nam-ma's shoulders. And from the washing trug is the best place, she informs, to assist the emptying of the washing machine, though she laughs and laughs to say it. It is hard work, all that laughing.

Centred

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Walk with Dog in a sort of? Rain dome? When we look up  rain falls from opaqueness The horizon made of? More of the same. Somehow this enclosure- this repetition- is no constraint.                                                                                                                                                                   

Jovial

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A restless night, where a volume of thunder blows away sleep. In the morning clouds stack and part and here is the sun, a warm salutation of sun. Sit down to write and the light shines direct into my eyes. What?! I ask of this phenomena: humorous cosmos, most humorous! Sigh; for I will have to push the table back to clamber out of my seat and walk every one of those five steps to the window and shift the wooden clothes horse to lean in, unwind the cord, let the blind down halfway. Shadow ivy shimmies and the breeze whispers like shantung silk.

epiphany

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Noun: manifestation of a divine being a sudden intuitive leap of understanding especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence Gorgeously backlit, the morning clouds, steeped pinkish gold, shadowed dove grey. A lady with a pastel coat shouts as she passes on the park pathway. 'Blows the cobwebs!' Her dog bounces by. He has a rubber ball in his mouth. Her hair is a silver shade. Storm swells makes the news. Pictures of breaking waves, air bourn water; think of lace, of ghosts, of elemental energies, listening to the howl outside while the decorations are stripped down: a sense of rediscovery in the bared spaces. Wind sweeps the car park where people clutch onto shopping. Faces are bored, inconvenienced: or pleased to have secured a favoured flavour, a bargain, the satisfaction of having remembered they were low on milk. Above the scene a band of moon in the sky, tucked in darkness like a ring in a jeweller's box; think of offer, promise,

A Landscaped Gym

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A vertical path leads to the little woodland; footholds scarce. Upper body strength gets you into the little woods. Two levels of trail, in this woodland: deer and badger. To follow the deer: be nimble, leap the logs, span the hollows where the bracken lies fractured, where bramble stems are snaking. To follow the badger: squat, duck, dodge the low blackthorn. Forget everything for marvels found: how muscular that mushroom and here a tree attempting flight? Watch the wind catch the root-tangle; the whole structure tip and teeter on the bank; the almost-launch; the bounce and retract. All around are failed flights: deer bound over them and skin off the bark. Slither down the bank, muddy the stream; leave the little woodland for some plain lane legwork, splash a few puddles to vary your stride. Over the hedge, edge the mud, resist the wind, the rain that hurts, push back at the air. If the tree were here it would fly: might even land in the river, splash down like a wooden dragon…

Adjust

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An earache cure has muted the world. Starlings in masses pass overhead, unheard. The river deep makes silent waves. Soundless leaves shake from voiceless trees. Only a recoil crack of corrugated roof, a panel loosed in the night's storm, pierces the taciturn pod. Down by the water the wind blows darkly. The old quarry wall is comprised, though it won't fall entirely for years yet. It's shale underfoot and could easily drop a lone walker into the rain swell of river. It is enough, today, to lose a familiar sense, adjust to a world with quieted starling hordes. The other path is trod, up and up, step by steep step, cumbersomely clambered, over the leaves that dropped, up while the wind blows the cloud over the valley, up to a mossed rock. Legs and ears at rest, eyes and brain roam the valley, the canopy, the lifting sky, a strangely melancholic riverbank. Adjustments; the river flow represents; the altered path, the world without noise. There will always be things

There's A Light

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The sun's light was there, barely recognised, diffused through gunmetal grey. Storm wind shook out the deadwood, charged the lanes, loud as thunder. At breakfast, sat at the hatched grain of the old table, we looked out of the windows. A white watery disc; hazed, indistinct: no sooner perceived than lost in miles of cloudy wool. Rain in droves was blown over hedges. The tractor men drew loads; sodden fruity pong, a different kind of seasonal spice. The great wheels left tracks in the fields, knee deep at least. There was lightening, this morning, our neighbour said. Our voices were stolen by the wind: we had to shrug and give up. Paler grey and fixed, the sky, the rain seemed set in: but then the clouds tore open and there was the background as it always is: such blue. All day the cloud re-felted, the wind ripped. The blue was there. Dog took a run on the dung heap, chased the tiny birds she will never catch, earned herself a hosing and then snuck wet onto th

New Boots

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Nam-ma, Girl, Little Granddaughter: after buying new Wellington boots they go to Widemouth Beach with a happy Dog. Feet are kept dry. Paws and fur in the water, happy happy Dog! The sun has a turn at shining again. Little Granddaughter chases a plastic bag over the sand and every time she bends to reach it blows away again. Nam-ma and Girl would have helped sooner only they were suffering a laughter fit, poor dears. But after this is ice cream and café crafted soup. Dog loiters under a chair. Clouds cluster, the wind speeds and chills. Coffee heats. Feet are still dry on the drive home. Little Granddaughter sleeps and the wakeful others talk of fresh diary pages, cider vinegar, brisk walking, making project lists. Dog on the back seat, damp, gently steaming. New boots press pedals, vroom-vroom!

Day One, 2014

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I yearn to describe weather: why would I desire that? Because it is outdoors, expansive, it tints each day's experience. These details make days and days make lives. So I always speak of sun and shade. I see it, I am awake, alive! Yesterday the sun gave us a winter bath, today the rain is drenching. Wind draws the trees as an archer draws a longbow. My son-in-law is outside ankle deep in a puddle, huddled under a gazebo, barbequing. Neither the climate nor Fat Beagle's cake theft will ruin Little Grandson's birthday party. 'Binocleers!' He likes the present we bought him. He peers through them into the winter dark treetops.