Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

No storm today. Rain and a trudge around some local damage. In the lanes potholes are ground deeper by a swill of loose stone. The fat trunked ash is conveniently falling twig by twig. Next door fares a leaky front room and a greenhouse left more frame than glass. We lean over the fence, observe the wrecked reflective pieces. Elsewhere; we note; other people are prising trees out of roofs: evacuated: more, much more is forecast: weather talk stumbles out of the anodyne zone into an apocalypse. The sky lies on the horizon, innocuous grey, keeps us guessing.

~ The road is so wet; a long dark throat of it One slit-eye moon rolls Night arches by: note the languorous float of it ~ Like a whale, I think: in the chill deep it lives Calm or storm: comfortable, part of the abyss ~

Something under the ground Outside the converted chapel Creeps up ominous A red bloom spreads On the gravel, looks murderous It's the ruddy earth, or the terracotta brick Or we are mistaken And things are as unseemly as they seem… In the morning sky Pink and dark Clouds bloom Over Carzantic: storm roses.

The holiday voucher is handed over at reception. Tea and scones are available. In the room a fine tassel hangs from a wardrobe key. Complimentary sherry in cut glass. Sash windows overlook carved owls, flagstones, lawn, curls of distant cloud. A walk next: an exploration of Brent Knoll's steep gradient. Curiosity is a great propellant. The sky gods: feisty, buffeting, sending footprints off at quirked angles. At the summit are craters, a grassed over moon surface. A 360 view spins, right to left, left to right, until it gets dizzy. Path is a slipway of mud and water. A brook bubbles up and all the way back down to earth and a warm country hotel. There is chintzy print and lampshades strung with beads. Yes, lampshades wearing jewellery: seven courses on the taster menu; liberal use of balsamic: merlot unbottled, lemon cleansed palates, fat bottomed brandy glass, cutlery shining in low light.

In a western land far from China, the New Lunar Year starts with the cold element of water: it comes in the form of rain. A writer sits at her desk that is also the dining table and a sometimes home for itinerant objects. She favours the chair that faces the room's double windows; admires the view of clustered plant pots and washing draped for drying, the toys left out and a dog changing sleep positions on the leather shine of the sofa. Rain dots and stripes the outer panes, opaques the horizon. Any new start provokes future thoughts; she thinks; and beyond the fascination of the weather her thoughts wander. Is there a perceivable energy of time patterns? This year represented by a horse, by the element of wood, a masculine force, the colour green: what comes next? Uncertainty is essential: it is the medium of faith. But what does come next? She thinks of horseshoes printed in mud: when they change direction it is done in a curve; where the head points the hooves follow,

Every month I attempt to remember to join in with other bloggers posting up book reviews. It also helps me to remember to keep making time to read: if you want to write then reading is essential!  The Island, Victoria Hislop, Headline Book Publishing http://www.amazon.co.uk/Island-Victoria-Hislop/dp/0755309510 This book was given to me by a friend who had inadvertently ended up with two copies. It came with a shrug. I soon picked up why. The story is well researched, well intentioned, the writing isn't what I would identify as bad, exactly. I feel like a heel for pointing this out, actually, because a story with a kind heart is a good thing: but there is far too much tell and not enough show. I like to work things out for myself. Show me a scene, I'll know if people are happy or sad or complicated. I'd rather make up my own mind, it makes me more involved, and the further into the story I go the more this applies. For example, if on page 206 I need to be t

Post arrives from far away. A gift. 182 similes printed; thumbed, skim read, an embraceable greed: desirous to learn. One page found marked by a folded corner. Opened, this page speaks of uncertainty. Uncertainty in all things: as the base nature of things. A tree grows, it says; and how to tell which flowers will blow away and which will bloom to fruit? Without uncertainty, the joy is less; the petals' value fixed. Without uncertainty, no quest: it makes a futility of any bravery test. Much to mull over as the sleep coffee balance is recalibrated.