Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Getting almost sociable with my blogging lately: part of a poetry project today run by Suze at Subliminal Coffee . She explains: 'It's called Tiny Harmonies. What I'd like to do through the first of spring is introduce a theme at the weekend so that the following Friday, participants can post a haiku in response. The collaboration would run for three weeks and the first week's theme is origin .' [Hai·ku 1 . A form of Japanese verse, written in 17 syllables  divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature  or one of the seasons. 2 . A poem written in this form.] On the theme 'origin,' I did some doodling, and here's what popped out of my biro. Might not be entirely in the count, admittedly! Attempts, in order of origin, (seems appropriate.) First, origin as the place that new life starts: Baby opens palm Mo...

Half stub of mouse on the doormat this morning. More description, though I do a poetic job of it, is rejected: sometimes, even poetry must be on a need to know basis. What remains is placed under the garden hedge with the usual country wisdom: You are part of the earth now, little mouse, and probably part of the cat. Everything comes back to the earth. To make the best of this experience we are having, being sentient individuals, Mr and me and Dog make a brisk morning walk. A gentle run simmers up, and then we get home to work out arms with weights and then we go back outside to run through our Tae Kwon-Do patterns. The Nextdoor Chickens cluck at our kihaps, and a neighbour waves as she walks up to the village. Clarice plays cards every Thursday with two friends, 'For the company, dear, not for money.' I like her ethic. Old Poet Larkin preferred misery to daffodils, but I side with Wordsworth on that: the cyclical nature of renewal and the beauty of the unrepea...

Squid Tree  Cool humidity washes over the morning. It fades the hilltop backdrops to vague misted cliffs, to shapes of faraway things, like islands, like many dome-topped islands. In this muted sea I swim, along the root knotted lanes, dreaming, discovering. This bobble-eyed tree is a land octopus: Plantae Cephalopoda Gigantis. This fungus is dark as a smoker's lung. Birds dart, as fish do, flashing colours. This Squid Tree is diving. Sun deepens its reach, presses warmth, retreats behind a fine foam of cloud. Discovering, dreaming, in these root knotted lanes: mangroves coral reefs forests mountain trails anatomy oceans. The universe stretches from here, to back here again. Plantae Cephalopoda Gigantis    

In the bank of the river the roots of a fallen tree: sickly pale, lumpy metatarsals, poke out and shiver. The tree is further down, flood dumped and gathering its own beach. I climb where birds have nested and watch out over the water. Sun plays in the eddies: some look friendly and some deceiving. Daffodils on the path are budded; a warm spring smell of earth, onion, water and a hint of baked dung; see how the light makes a flowing jewel of the river: I follow the path through the odorous ramson leaves, over tunnel mazes where badgers mark their territories with gleaming coils of excrement: amazing what there is to marvel the senses here. All the way up the loose steep path, to see the river shining like cut citrine quartz.

One brain, fizzing full, like an effervescent tablet, full of bubbles and whirl, and, while from the outside a pattern may be seen, something fractal, universal, microcosmic: on the inside of these eyes it appears a drowning blur. Being worried for it won't help. Now is not the time for stilled waters. Now is a time to stir, to fizz… To the Deep!

Blood in its mouth, still red-wet, over bared badger teeth. Eyes sunken, dehydrated, unconnected. For a moment the creature seems to breathe: the wind moved its fur, that was all, but Dog and I are wary still: a force of life hovers in the air: a sense of displacement. I could touch that thick fur but a death taboo stays my hand. Dexterous paws with dangerous claws lie quiet. Pads of feet: so common to mammals: thoughts of kinship jump. A woodpecker knocks, somewhere in the trees: it harshly tolls. Off the lane and into the woods we walk, climb over the incumbent giants there. On each storm-felled tree something new grows. Green pushes from the cold earth, fells me with delight. Life: life is here: we are all here: my roots reach down: down to the molten heart of the earth. On the return journey I put my hand on the fur of the road-killed brock: thick, wiry, soft, like a good paintbrush.

By ten o'clock this morning we are parked at Newbury Hilton Hotel. Boy is launching into Part 1 of the Umpire's course, so he can learn how to assist a referee in bossing a fight. He has two cheese sandwiches, a sparring kit and a bottle of water. I have a poor girl's croissant (granary slice with butter) and a plastic flask of Lavazza. Light shakes through the leaves of the boundary trees. Outside is aching, incisively cold. New buds pucker on cold branches ne'er the less: that is the intuitive optimism of Spring. Gloves on and car locked in case some crazy thief wants to steal dog hair and log bark: a walk, I will have: around big shops: quite the novelty. I am twirling frocks on hangers, stroking fluffy jumpers, my eyes are slurping up all the colours and the forms of the piled up aisles like I'm in an art gallery. Such fun, all this Stuff: one does not need so much of it but there is no denying the Fun . (Boy did well on his course, incidentally,...