Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Sat on the doorstep, tucked out of the morning breeze, sun on my toes. Toast with butter melting is more like pudding than breakfast, and who wouldn't want pudding for breakfast? I did not want to leave my deeply sleepy bed, this is like a reward. Sat, legs lolling, in the lounger with sun on my face; cold coffee to hand, and a book. Washing moves on the rotary line. The lines sag with wet weight. Rain speckles on the page. Sat on the sofa, barefoot, with a layer of warm jumper, with the book. Each sentence gets re-read: the thunder is distracting. I have hot coffee and marshmallows in an earthenware pot. All so sweet, and bitter, with these words on Bronze age wonders and watching to see if the sky will split. Heart catches in throat: exactly how it feels: a gag of emotion from which inarticulate sound squeezes. At the roundabout, driving home, one glimpse of shocking red sunset. One carmine glass of wine waits on my writing desk.  

Hail strike on the driveway sends me back indoors to retrieve waterproofs. I mean to walk around the lanes but find myself at the gate to the woods. A few times the steep mud path slides me faster than expected; there is barbed wire suddenly underfoot, a rotten trunk thumps the ground after I reach to hold it. Overhead that bright green canopy sways, lets melt water pelt down my neck. Bluebells stand surprised by the invasion of ice chips. Churned up river runs mud-brown, is feverishly swollen. Sun warmth brings everything from its shivering. A woodpecker echoes. From the crumble of wall, I observe the detail of reflection in the quarry pool. The illusion is so perfect: I could jump in, climb those trees. In the heat of walking home I also stop, take off my jumper, stand for a moment, amazed. 

At a loss for concentration: run through a series of small chores. Some washing is done, the pros and cons of different sizes of paper guillotines are considered. I'm surprised to find I have made the bed, and part cleaned the cooker. What I don't do is either forgotten or not a surprise. I am cross with Dog for ignoring me, when she pounces across the crop field in pursuit of swooping birds: she should not run through the crop, nor pick and choose loyalty. She walks back to the house at heel, on a lead, head down, tail at slow wag. I am cross with her, she knows. Yet that utter glee of pursuit, ears and tongue flailing, is the image that comes to me over and over, bounce by bounce.

All day, it rains. Dog and I take the old path through the woods, past the troll tunnels and under the trees with spindly, moss heavy branches. They remind me of tarantula legs. Attempts at waterproof don't work. I am drenched before half way. It is good to be here though, where the leaves of spring are lately unfurling, where the light reaches even under the thick pine. On the way back we visit the river. Dog swims after sticks. Bird acrobats flip over the water's surface. At home, the kettle bubbles. Everything seems so ordinary. I get changed into dry work clothes and off I go and act as though everything is ordinary, everything is fine. Rain falls heavier. I drive home slowly, over a slick of precipitation and bumps of tree shrapnel. 'After 24 hours,' my friend tells me, later this evening; weary from her hospital vigils, her voice echoed by poor reception: 'that's when they can register his death.'  We sigh. 'If you fee

What to do with yourself, while you are waiting for an outcome that is inevitable, but hasn't yet happened? I walk, in the last month of this coldest spring, down the lanes: even in chill here come the fork tailed birds of summer; fat bees, the first fruit on the wild strawberry. Such calm, such soothing words. I have my phone which I type on so slowly. There is no one for miles. There is a voice memo function. I speak the words about the fork tail birds, fat bees, first fruits. My voice quavers, a little. The phone hears this: On this last month o underslung last man to disco disc brake hey come this tailored fit summer is that bees fresh fruit wild strawberry Poetic comedy, exactly what is needed. I say, Universe, I need a miracle. Later, my car is stamped safe for road use for another year. I should have chosen my thoughts with greater precision. Inevitable, but not yet happened. The white bells shine in hedgerow groups, gathered, congregational, sep

So much happening I can't focus on one thing: confetti thrown into a storm. I take Dog to the woods, sit for a while on a fallen tree. Here there is birdsong and green filtered light; shadow play, river burble, moss and wild garlic scent. On Friday evening, students gather in the old school hall. They are nervous, regardless of grade. I get my Second Dan certificates. On Saturday morning, similar: both the red belts get high passes: Mr gets his Fifth Dan certificates. There are two new First Dans, three new Second Dans. We all have photographs taken. Saturday afternoon I jump in the river, feel the fast water pull, balance myself holding twists of tree root. Enthusiastic dog-splash at my heels. Saturday evening there is an engagement party. Little Granddaughter hits me in the face with a balloon: laughs, laughs, laughs, feeds me a crisp. I see faces I have not seen for twenty years and still know. So much can change, and not change at all.

We can sing of mountains, paint the sweep of river valleys, write poetry of beach sand. Song, picture, words; they may arrive slowly, but never so slowly as the mountains itself has been pressed up from the earth's mantle, as water has grooved rock, as the waves have ground stones. Geography teaches celestial patience. I haven't quite mastered it yet. I google 'geographical explosions' just to see if I can get ground to shift faster. There's Yellowstone Calderas and the progression of events at Krakatoa: powerful stuff: terminally powerful. When the earth isn't going your way, look to space. Here I find what I need. Stars that throw light and silver into my night.