Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Rain falls all over the park. Sensibly booted feet walk the circumference of the old firs, scenting earthy pine. Across the grass roll big tractor wheels, the grass is kept short all year. On the green the yellow-brown patched leaves show bright. By the afternoon clouds are blown through, the sun reaches warm, a touch of summer: as though it says to us, do not forget me, I do not forget you. Daylight darkles. One star is up, is told a wish. Three quarters of a moon crowns silver white, from the belly of night. Backlit clouds hold out, soft as blankets. Somewhere underneath a car pulls to the road edge. The driver leans down to find what is tapping her boot heel. Finds one child's sock and one lost Buddha figurine.

Rain in grey this morning. Steam and dark coffee part ways as they leave the flask. The road is clear, the car steady. Here I am holding the hot cup, sat up, under the rain that falls like a coverlet. Is there such a thing as a car lie-in? Should have worn pyjamas. Have I got my suit, my belt, my licence book, my training fee, my foot support, my water bottle? Yes. Will I check again in five minutes? Yes. In my suit, belt tied, fee paid, book stamped, foot supported, in the hall. Revved! 200 bodies or more in here, all power and no breathable air. Sweat humidity 100%. Legs work. Arms work. Core muscles get tenacious. If the brain works no time to think of it. Put ideas in a thought-locker. Drink from the sidelined water bottle. In the body's heat it feels cold. To the changing rooms, before sweat cools to fabric glue. Rain in grey this afternoon. Steam and dark coffee part ways as they leave the flask. The road is busy, stomachs growl at it. A supe

There was no one there, I thought. The shop walls were lined with wonderworks and an island of efficacious products occupied the central floor space. Customers could walk between the shelves in a circular route, dazzled by abundance. There would be something worthwhile and thirst quenching in this place. I stepped in, beginning my curious study on the right hand aisle. I knew there would be staff, of course, imagined that something of import had to be fetched or a kettle to be switched for boiling up water, leaving the counter empty for a short while. Meanwhile, there was no one there but me, I thought. Too abruptly and too close a face appeared and asked: 'Can I help you?' Were my nerves not steely I may have shrieked. I was reading shampoo ingredients, though this was not the main purpose of my visit. I put the bottle back on the shelf unashamed. I was being distracted because I was paying attention to my immediate world. Great art and happiness can stem from tha

Trophies won at competition displayed here- not for curing the common cold :-)  The pasta machine is snowed under flour, it's cold outside, my wine glass is full of red. Remnants of washing up hang around the sink and there's still a dosh of espresso in my pink metallic flask. All day I clutched a tissue and rubbed a leaky nose till it was sore and dry. (It was my nose: I should make that clear.) I stayed in and typed and wore through some elbow skin. (One day I will have an ergonomic desk.) Enthusiasm for movement is extinct but there is espresso. Light the caffeine and stand well back! After an hour my class has a glow warm: enough to cure my cold. Thank you to all my lovely students!

They climb down the lea of the hill. No one walks here but us. Above is a pitch of wind, unearthly. Water pours. If a mist drops, can I navigate? Keep the sound of the water to your right. Out of the crooked gorse they walk, to a clear crossing, shallow, over flat stones. 'I find it!' Little Granddaughter says. On the other side of the river she tires and takes a shoulder ride. Crow-birds hop. Sheep poo is pointed out, and the flights of linnets from a circling Dog. They are babies, she tells Nam-ma, whispers; 'tiny-baby-birds' regards their flight with indulgent pride. Not too cold for ice cream yet!

A zirconium string : the Plymouth road clusters with headlights, lures the quiet passenger up from wordless thoughts. Sparkle is created here, of a sort that will not rival any star: a mundane piece of loveliness: shine in a domestic setting. In the cars whole other lives drive by houselights of more lives. Something about that passing, that unknowingly shared point of time and space: the emotive commonplace in all lives. Up the Tavistock hill they drive, looking behind them at the axled bling of carnival rides, hear the faint squeals from Goose Fair.

We have been running free in the woods again, Dog and I, following knots of pathway. Around us trees bend and snake in deliberate shapes, brambles set sinuous ankle traps, fallen logs are my balance beams. Dog is puff and leaf-smacking wag: when she is gone on her chases I hear leaves break stem and land. Spiders throw galleon lines: they love to play Pirates. It doesn't have to make exact sense, it is what you want it to be; so we run and we are as we wish.  If there is a means to break this spell I will never seek it.