Hoist
the blinds, view from the window, on bared soil, crows as fat as seals rake up
bugs. I note how we have woken to a world made of misted shades, to a subtle,
evocative depth of field. Also, giggle: from where the pots are placed to catch
the growing rays of sun, it seems that I use my car to grow basil.
Outside,
I sit at the table Mr made, working on an illustration. Look up to a sky, and
if love were a clear uncomplicated shade of blue, here it is. And then the
kettle must be filled and heated: here are our guests, our first official new
house guests, welcomed in with steaming tea and bowls of bolognaise.
When
bowls are empty and bellies are full, we traipse the lanes, dropping berries
into tubs, pointing out items of note to inquisitive sisters. This is a
hazel nut; honeysuckle flowers can be eaten; this is the skull of a fox; a
quarry is where stone is cut from.
They are like kittens, two different kittens. One that
pounces upon an answer, plays with it, drops it, moves to the next pounce. One
that sits quiet, absorbing information for later employ. Several hours, a
couple of miles, two sessions of Dog recalling, 4 pounds 8 ounces of
sun-flushed fruit later, we need another pot of tea. There’s barbeque smoke to
prompt, to dry heat handcrafted burgers, to cram into bread buns; there’s
sauces to array, spoons to summon, and paper plates. There is wine pre-chilled.
Under the stars, there is acoustic guitar, the centre of our weekend. Mr H, for
one night only, plays Bowie, unplugged. Mr, me, Mrs H, the inquisitive Little H
sisters, we lean back to listen. The more we stare, the more stars are
appearing; innumerable to the point of ridiculousness, joyful to the point of
hilariousness.
Bleary
morning comes; the kettle is refilled. I hear the wolfish wind sprint across
cloud face. Indoors, the tall pan is fetched down from the cupboard top, and
the Little H sisters learn of making jam, boiling up the blackberries so
diligently mined from the lanes. When they leave, they leave with three pots of
jam and four eggs from the Nextdoor Chickens.
Mr
and I head for work. Daubs of black wrapped bales in the cut fields recalls the
night sky.
Let
all the children boogie, I think, and make jam.
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