Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

A restless night, where a volume of thunder blows away sleep. In the morning clouds stack and part and here is the sun, a warm salutation of sun. Sit down to write and the light shines direct into my eyes. What?! I ask of this phenomena: humorous cosmos, most humorous! Sigh; for I will have to push the table back to clamber out of my seat and walk every one of those five steps to the window and shift the wooden clothes horse to lean in, unwind the cord, let the blind down halfway. Shadow ivy shimmies and the breeze whispers like shantung silk.

Noun: manifestation of a divine being a sudden intuitive leap of understanding especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence Gorgeously backlit, the morning clouds, steeped pinkish gold, shadowed dove grey. A lady with a pastel coat shouts as she passes on the park pathway. 'Blows the cobwebs!' Her dog bounces by. He has a rubber ball in his mouth. Her hair is a silver shade. Storm swells makes the news. Pictures of breaking waves, air bourn water; think of lace, of ghosts, of elemental energies, listening to the howl outside while the decorations are stripped down: a sense of rediscovery in the bared spaces. Wind sweeps the car park where people clutch onto shopping. Faces are bored, inconvenienced: or pleased to have secured a favoured flavour, a bargain, the satisfaction of having remembered they were low on milk. Above the scene a band of moon in the sky, tucked in darkness like a ring in a jeweller's box; think of offer, promise,

A vertical path leads to the little woodland; footholds scarce. Upper body strength gets you into the little woods. Two levels of trail, in this woodland: deer and badger. To follow the deer: be nimble, leap the logs, span the hollows where the bracken lies fractured, where bramble stems are snaking. To follow the badger: squat, duck, dodge the low blackthorn. Forget everything for marvels found: how muscular that mushroom and here a tree attempting flight? Watch the wind catch the root-tangle; the whole structure tip and teeter on the bank; the almost-launch; the bounce and retract. All around are failed flights: deer bound over them and skin off the bark. Slither down the bank, muddy the stream; leave the little woodland for some plain lane legwork, splash a few puddles to vary your stride. Over the hedge, edge the mud, resist the wind, the rain that hurts, push back at the air. If the tree were here it would fly: might even land in the river, splash down like a wooden dragon…

An earache cure has muted the world. Starlings in masses pass overhead, unheard. The river deep makes silent waves. Soundless leaves shake from voiceless trees. Only a recoil crack of corrugated roof, a panel loosed in the night's storm, pierces the taciturn pod. Down by the water the wind blows darkly. The old quarry wall is comprised, though it won't fall entirely for years yet. It's shale underfoot and could easily drop a lone walker into the rain swell of river. It is enough, today, to lose a familiar sense, adjust to a world with quieted starling hordes. The other path is trod, up and up, step by steep step, cumbersomely clambered, over the leaves that dropped, up while the wind blows the cloud over the valley, up to a mossed rock. Legs and ears at rest, eyes and brain roam the valley, the canopy, the lifting sky, a strangely melancholic riverbank. Adjustments; the river flow represents; the altered path, the world without noise. There will always be things

The sun's light was there, barely recognised, diffused through gunmetal grey. Storm wind shook out the deadwood, charged the lanes, loud as thunder. At breakfast, sat at the hatched grain of the old table, we looked out of the windows. A white watery disc; hazed, indistinct: no sooner perceived than lost in miles of cloudy wool. Rain in droves was blown over hedges. The tractor men drew loads; sodden fruity pong, a different kind of seasonal spice. The great wheels left tracks in the fields, knee deep at least. There was lightening, this morning, our neighbour said. Our voices were stolen by the wind: we had to shrug and give up. Paler grey and fixed, the sky, the rain seemed set in: but then the clouds tore open and there was the background as it always is: such blue. All day the cloud re-felted, the wind ripped. The blue was there. Dog took a run on the dung heap, chased the tiny birds she will never catch, earned herself a hosing and then snuck wet onto th

Nam-ma, Girl, Little Granddaughter: after buying new Wellington boots they go to Widemouth Beach with a happy Dog. Feet are kept dry. Paws and fur in the water, happy happy Dog! The sun has a turn at shining again. Little Granddaughter chases a plastic bag over the sand and every time she bends to reach it blows away again. Nam-ma and Girl would have helped sooner only they were suffering a laughter fit, poor dears. But after this is ice cream and café crafted soup. Dog loiters under a chair. Clouds cluster, the wind speeds and chills. Coffee heats. Feet are still dry on the drive home. Little Granddaughter sleeps and the wakeful others talk of fresh diary pages, cider vinegar, brisk walking, making project lists. Dog on the back seat, damp, gently steaming. New boots press pedals, vroom-vroom!

I yearn to describe weather: why would I desire that? Because it is outdoors, expansive, it tints each day's experience. These details make days and days make lives. So I always speak of sun and shade. I see it, I am awake, alive! Yesterday the sun gave us a winter bath, today the rain is drenching. Wind draws the trees as an archer draws a longbow. My son-in-law is outside ankle deep in a puddle, huddled under a gazebo, barbequing. Neither the climate nor Fat Beagle's cake theft will ruin Little Grandson's birthday party. 'Binocleers!' He likes the present we bought him. He peers through them into the winter dark treetops.