Seventy Days

Dabs of mist linger on grass. Spider webs are easy to find. Where yesterday I found half of the wing of a dark feathered bird, there are loose feathers caught on damp foliage. Dog has her nose down, forgets we are playing fetch. There is heat promised, in this humid air.

While we were walking, the washing machine has rumbled to a halt. I roll wet clothes into the basket, lug it out to the line. Hoisted whites lollop in a lazy breeze.

I get one very brown arm sat outside, at the pallet table, attempting to draw an ink-drinking monkey. In this story, the monkey represents chaos.

On my paler arm is a training trophy; an amethyst bruise, bigger than a thumbprint, smaller than a plum.

In the afternoon I brave the fields in flip-flops. I watch my footing, around sheep dung, nettles, thistle leaves, barbed wire, creeping bramble, random rocks, over the ankle twisting grass tufts. I have a flower in my hair. Panting Dog detours to the stream after we rescue a Longwool from a fence tangle.

Voices float down from the house. Farmer Landlord is standing atop a ladder by the brewing kitchen door. Builder Pete is wedged between the bank and the back of the house, lifting up a roof panel to clear out rat’s nests. They both wave hello. Farmer Landlord tenses his shoulders as he turns back to chat with Pete; something about the gesture tells me I had best put the kettle on, there’s bad news coming.

Farmer Landlord holds a mug with an unsteady hand. I’ve put a sugar in for him.

Rosehill will be sold. The last date of legal residence is named as the last day of July, seventy days from now.