A Box With All The Bones
Some call the weather mild, some ‘unseasonably warm.’
A midday sun can catch the treetops all tropical; such parrot-yellows, such paradise-reds!
Wild strawberries vivid in the cut hedge, plucked, nestle in a warm palm.
Even where the mud has fallen from farm traffic the lane is bouncing light.
Later but not so late the dark gathers in.
Soft focus and sepia in mist, the trees are rusting, flake by flake.
The dark gathers in, closer in, to breathe damp-earth air, to breathe the woodsmoke.
Most of what we meant to do was done, though it was jumbled up: a box with all the bones in it, not a wired up skeleton model. All the time one is thinking that those bones need sorting: can’t quite relax: one itches, like a broken bone that’s mending.
In the afternoon it is warm and calm and Little Granddaughter favours vampire attire. She dresses up our faces with thick paint. She cheats at apple bobbing, all the children do. They grin because they know we saw. Everyone giggles. We blame the sugar.
Later: nearly midnight: Mr and me and this year’s pumpkin: rose petal wine in a glass.
Homemade ice cream in the freezer that wasn’t ready yet, the glasses have finger prints, the carpet unswept: not irrelevant at all: a swell of appreciation picks it all up, lays it out to be seen at full advantage.
Midnight passes. We step out to look at the half-moon, how it has tipped over.
Sleep is something to sink into, grateful, adoring.