Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

In the car I am doing the flipside of a road rage: the untrammelled voluminous song. Sorry, pedestrians, for the flinch the noise caused: but not for the noise. What tune it held or dropped is irrelevant. The lack of trammel is the crux. In a sky of black glass the half-moon shears off rays, squint-bright. Stars are set, expertly: some sort of algorithm one suspects. No matter what I write about, I write about the transcendence of fear. Not the conquering of fear itself, only the debilitation of it.  I write appreciation, the most useful and genuine form of love.  I write how to measure the weight of your life.  The more I write like this the more I think it, feel it, live it.  I look for it. One who looks stands back from the crowd. If we all look there should be no crowd: only company. And after the journey of song and thoughts, the old red car reverses up the driveway. For further entertainment there is wine to drink, and watching a bellied moon get stuck in a t

Not expecting company the cows Were shy: they had not brushed their hair Perhaps: but these are tiny baby cows A-scared of me, the visitor explains Her hair all feral in the wintry air, her hands Drape palm up over the fence, a gesture Placatory to the shuffling herd. An affable Insouciance ensues.

Why does lemon go with fish? Zen question. Pluck this from here and that from there. Squeeze it. Marinade. Fizz some ghee in a flat pan. Gleeful. Green beans, shiny in steam. Wedges cut from root vegetables crunch up, warm coloured. Salt sweet and peppered. Ghee melts, biscuity. Fish from a river, fruit from a tree. Doled out on warmed plates. Some rub, some squish; agave, cocoa, apricot, rye with butter; there's a pudding. Sap, bean, dried fruit, grain, battered milk. How the world looks after us. The more we reciprocate, the more we can relax.

Over the summer an oak tree fell into the river and took the form of a dragon: a whiskered Chinese dragon, playful, amenable to our games. Even Dog clambered onto the ridged back and splashed back happy to the water. Storms came, in the autumn: an elemental surge, bigger than riverbanks. Under the squall and flood, the Oak Dragon disappeared, or the soul of it was freed, or both, we could not be sure. Today was ice bright, impetuous. The river calls though the water has levelled down. Familiar rocks reappear. The bank edges are changed: soft sanded mud re-moulded, the drooping tree snapped. Dog swims in open water, where the Dragon had stood. Fast paced the water moves, unimpeded. Snatches of branch stick at the opposite bank, inside a shadow, a ghost-spot, a dark echo. Downstream, revealed, the body of an oak, a former dragon: not dead: transformed. Progressed. Dog sniffles after ducks. Ducks hide in the old dragon's curves. Across the winter c

This day starts in the dark, with Little Granddaughter, Monsters Inc, Mr Small and Willy, a dreaming chimp. She speaks as she finds: Christmas, jumpers, ponies, chocolate… where is the monkey… there is the monkey and he's asleep and he's singing and he's painting one banana 'nother one banana! Streams of consciousness converge, diverge, trickle, surge. She sets up a bookshop, is called Shopkeeper now. Teddy rests in Dog's basket. Dog sighs. Nam-ma hauls up one fringed blind, to watch the sky, leaves one shut, for warmth. Over a peaked range, solid on the horizon, between frayed edges the light lifts. 'What would you recommend, Shopkeeper?' Nam-ma buys two giraffes and some giraffe clothes while her coffee brews.

Little Grandson requests some Hide and Seek. For his entertainment Granma picks a flagrant Hide, simply picking up a duvet that is lying on the sofa bed in the multipurposed play and guest room and draping it over her head. Boots, bright red boots, are sticking out underneath. Footsteps she hears: the closet door squeak, the spoken 'No, not under the bed. She's not in here, Grandad.' I am in here, Granma thinks. I am a person sized floral patterned lump stood over these red boots: somehow Little Grandson sees only floral bedding and has not registered the change in layout. 'Are you sure?' Grandad is in the room. 'Really sure?' That's the voice of Uncle Boy, a bit tired and gravelly after 11 miles of kayak with a sludgy partner. 'Yes,' the Grandson says, no trace of doubt. Even though the duvet is stuttering suppressed laughter. Granma, Little Grandson and Uncle Boy sit to a table laden; several cheeses, meats, a pât

Eyes scrunched like old raisons. Ears water plugged. Feeling discontinued. Crawling through words on metaphoric hands, illustrative knees. Or is it discombobulated, that feeling? Discomforture? Disci- Disco- means a disc, a phonograph, something that can turn around. Crawling in woods, under growth, literal, actual. A circular route. Dog's tail is like a map, a propeller. Round and round and round. Notably round. Rain on the quarry pool, the flat mirror, broken. Around a tree a vine has crept and died; rotted, snapped; the thought comes: what clings will not survive. When the rain stops, the water will still; flat; reflect. Discipline with its connotations of restriction: it is how the word is viewed. It is not the crepuscular vine. Open water reflects it better.

Whatever reason the alarm clock gives to wake me up, it's wrong. It's unreasonable. It is told names that suit it but they are mumbly, unintelligibly tired. No offence is given. Warm clothes, fried eggs and coffee: they bring coherence to the murk. The car is clear of ice: that is a better start: the old trick with a bed sheet has unfixed the fastenings of a late night frost. Condensation, that is the worst of it. The heater blares all the way. A car park hard to find in the dark, barely marked, is, ne'ertheless, found. Nothing stirs but us and the sound of crow-birds. Boy yomps on: bemissioned (like bewitched only self inflicted.) I see his snow trousers catch first light before he blends to furze and granite. I will have a shot more of coffee before treading after, bitter hot and heavenly. It is warm to walk, and undisciplined; all those paths that run off, fall in streams, squash under grey stone bolus; littered by bone and dung; that no sooner snu

How dull the houses were before: with no baubles, no twinkling shapes, no metallic fuzz. Simple reflective reminders: gaudy fun: it all stands brave in the subzero dark. Last year, we say: the wire frame reindeer on the porch roof by the school, how the wind laid it on its back, blinking lights, every night slumped this way or that. Drunk! This year the porch sports multi-coloured lines, a mock-ice terraced palace. Between the gilt and flash of civilized spots, trees throw down leaves. Underneath is such character, dancing naked at the roadside! The car rattles down tunneled ribs, a bony esophagus of branches.

Pale thing whirls: car slows on the night-shade tarmac. What, Fox? What are you doing? The usual fox has a slink to it, crafty, self-contained, avoidant of traffic. This one tacks the road, visually entertaining, like watching an unnecessarily angry person shout and fumble-drop things in a supermarket or other inappropriately public place, until one considers the root of the behaviour: what pain, what despair, to sanction this? One turns an eye inward, then. Compassion for the tragicomic: imagined as a silvery noise, a coin dropping into an empty dish. Headlamps bounce light off untidy fur. No evidence of injury. So, what? Whatever has ruined Fox's day, or minute, or life, it skitters down a hill, muttering, leaves us to baffle.

Love is a light that draws the face As a leaf is drawn: simple, profound Nourished from weather and dirt Something in sight every day, comforting And sometimes the sun angles: or a lamp… From the table where I sit, tapping keys Glance up to sculptural shadows of the avocado leaves A green leather sofa holds a dog and her dreams And a man who is watching the television: all of us Under the cheap kindly brightness of an electric bulb  

This year's festive contribution stems from reading about the Mongolian Winter Solstice: deeply spiritual, community orientated and amply catered.  Ice In The Evergreen Leaves have dropped from the birch trees. Silver bark shines against bare dark earth for a while; then the black streaks are stark against a backdrop of snow. We are no strangers to cold here. This is autumn snow. Our winter starts at the solstice point, spans nine lengths of nine days, drops into chill; like a body without a heartbeat, Grandmother says. 'Maybe this year the earth will stay dead.' She says this every year. I think she believes it. I love the ice on the evergreens, where the sun touches, that's my glimmer of hope. 'Fetching the water for Grandmother, Monkh?' 'Yes, Vachir. Is winter close? It feels close.' Vachir laughs. 'How thick was the ice?' I hold out a finger, horizontal, to show him. He nods. '

They are that small: who can remember? It's not been so long but still we puzzle it. He has a frown. It is troublesome to be born, he says, with this frown and his closed eyes and his scrunched posture. Oh, we say: Baby Boy it will be lovely, you'll see, later, when your eyes can sort shape from colour. Ask your cousin, she has been here for years: two, nearly two and a half. She puts a hand on your hair, it's soft as her own rabbit. You hold her finger- he's got hands , she tells us: her eyes open up wide, all mystery and appreciation. Little Grandson had said all along: when the baby comes, my brother . He is at school when we visit, forging ahead, reconnaissance stuff. Of nature tables and Lego, of numbers, letters, hierarchy, protocol, dinosaurs and biscuits, he has knowledge to impart: gravitas with giggles: such a wry smile he has: those boys, we will be saying: oh, those boys! Every day, every minute: babies are born: ergo: every day, every minute

Anxious happy: calm is the desired state. Think of the mind as flat water. On the shore so many fine grained, foliated, metamorphic rocks: perfect pieces of creation, the perfect size to hold, smooth, multi-tonal. It won't be long before a few bounce out, skimming rings; a visual echo. These waves descend from surface to sediment: they are dippy, in their hither-thither, deep in their love, predictable, wonderful. Little Grandson is with his cousins. He needs a distraction or two. A shore of stones would do well for him. When he was done with the tricks of magicking spray: like walls of water: he would see how a wall could be built on the land. A line of the stones, layered up. A house, or a castle: something more permanent than the splash and no less charmed. In the garden will be enough trees to feed a herd of friendly dinosaurs. Maybe he will sit on the wall and look at the reflective water, at how the world can be upside down and this is how things are.

Down to the river curiosity draws booted steps. Today is a day to kick off boots, if the washed squash is still there, oddly trapped: wade out to find out if it's real, plastic or other as yet uncertain thing. It is there, an orange shine between weeded rocks. It still seems unexpected. The shallows are shallower, today: the boots have clearance, an inch at least below the rim. There's a  comprehensible  path for the rescue, which contains mild peril. The water pushes, impressively weighted. Rocks underfoot are loose, and slippery. Measured steps, practiced calm, a hand stretched to steady on a halfway boulder. And then, the squash is lifted: proves itself real, being flawed and open under the waterline. I can see seeds in the cavity. Steadily, back track, lift it higher on the bank, out of the flood plain into a bed of moss and dry leaf.

Subdued sun: noon has early evening light. Plants are frost-brittle. A quality of stoppage rules the sky until a distant shotgun ruffles up the pigeons. The hedge is warmly hued, under the glistening freeze: if the sun were fiercer today it would steam, like the neck of a serpent in a torrid swamp. Over the roll of the earth Dog and I stroll, happily absorbed, homewards. On the couch a damp Dog has snuck. In through windowpanes a brief lift of sun: it compliments the handsome leaves of the avocados.

A tonnage of leaf from pale to brassy rustles like brushes on cymbals. The river silvers and suddenly a pumpkin is caught between two rocks. I want to fetch it but the water would flood my boots. I don't why I didn't take off the boots: to avoid the cold, in spite of adventure? If I had reached it I would have placed it above flood level and wondered all year: will pumpkins then grow wild in the woods? It was smooth and unsmashed so perhaps it was plastic. I would have brought it home to decorate the garden or tumble into a recycle bin. Whatever the truth: I stood in the shallows, brimmed with marvel.

The air is notably colder. It condenses, crunches into surface ice. Coffee flask rolls in the passenger foot well: glugs, reassuring. Bags are packed and loaded. The address is not difficult to find. The house is cute. Here is a child I saw last as waving white fuzz on an ultrasound. Here are the dogs I walked: three years ago over the flattened sands of Castle Rock. Here we are, eating curry and talking names for a newer baby while a blonde elf child scores the dresses on a dance show. A Staffordshire terrier curls underfoot. The other, the scruffy part Lurcher, sleeps on his cushion. You should know his story: that once my friend was having a terrible day and sat on the steps of a theatre. A neglected fur tangle snuck up to sit in comfort with her. She saw the burns on his whippy body and could only take him home. There was talk of the Dog Warden, initially. If we can't home him… the man said. He has a home, she decided. A future. Curry simmer wobbles the stovetop pan