A walk on the safer side, today: no ponies lurking
amidst twilit bracken and bones. Over the arcs of cut-crop fields clouds tower.
They have storm left in them. A storm shortage is unlikely.
Dog has a beauty day, first a whole body mud wrap then tea tree foam, cold
rinse and an ear trim. A mild chill brews in my head and back indoors it is all
about wrapping up. This jumper is bobbled from use: comfortable and flecked
gold. Presents stack under the tinsel tree, labeled.
This time last year, we review: Mr Craig gave us the beautiful shock, the surprise wedding! We were thinking of our friend who was touch and go after a car crash. Ian Rice was poorly, we were used to it, it was just a fact. Little Godson on the phone, telling us about snow and a kestrel that hit a pigeon.
The pigeon survived.
Two magpies, I saw, out walking: one for sorrow, two for joy…
This year: Baby Girl joins her parents for anniversary celebrations, the
young man who survived the crash smiles and waves when I drive past. I love the
Christmas card I get from Little Godson and his Mum. There's a picture of his
clownish Dad, the memorable Mr Rice, and several of the godson gooning in snow.
The custom is to greet a solo magpie, to deflect the
sorrow it represents, something I have done out of polite habit, as though the
bird would be offended otherwise. This year I have changed this: I say, I know,
Magpie, there is always sorrow somewhere. No point pretending or hiding. A sigh
is released. And when I see two magpies harbingering happiness: I know that
too.
The child responds in all innocent joy: 'I nearly shat my pants!'
I could hear his mother shriek in the background.
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