Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Above the lane a blue clearing leads towards the woodlands. When I was a girl growing up on a beach sand paths led through rock pools as the tide drew in clear amongst the weaving bladder wracks: this is how the sky appears. Tarmac is storm pitted like bad teeth. Off road mulched: storm chippings. Boots crunch: like sand. Boots sink: wet sand. Hear the river waves, how they curl over rock beds. Under the spread of the woods; freshwater damp, dappled, pale bright buds, ground cover leaf, dark earth trail, sallow slash of snapped branch… this pushed over tree: the roots rise, drag fine soil out of the slate ground, flattened in profile, a wall of undertree: like the underwater: another world. This earth path winds around up out of the woods, returns to the clearing in the clouded sky. Sun paints: red gold on a smiling face. Photos are of an older split tree- forgot my camera today!

Today we were given our old weather back, which must have been an error: a muddle up of cloud paperwork perhaps or a practical joke, or the storm had got home and remembered it had left its keys or a glove and had to come back to retrieve: it had a half hearted feel to it like it was bored of all this flood destruction too. Someone says, convincingly, that tomorrow the sun is strongly rumoured to be thinking of paying us a visit but, despite this swell of optimism, meticulous inspection reveals the weekly forecast symbols as a series of repeats: one podgy cloud, wringing wet. Days like these are good for dreaming. Coconut rice steams in the oven. Lime pickle sharp against the salt-sweet rice; balmy spices in our Leftovers Curry. A conservatory is dreamt of: humid and abundant. It smells of citrus and coffee with undertones of damp slate. Viewed through glass roof frames the sky is continuously perfect. Back in reality, in the field, the welly boots stick in mud, squelchy,

Morning comes, cloudless blue, a trim of river mist: at the garden edge water vapour stripes up like ghostly fence posts. Four rain filled teapots on the pallet table have stood untouched through all the storms, a fact we remark upon almost daily and still seems unfeasible. The phone rings, interrupts this musing on fragility. Girl's voice blubs, indecipherable: says something like- it's silly I know - the words blur. Sorry honey, her mother says, I can't hear you. Girl says, 'Bunny: Bunny is gone.' Ian Button Bunny was his full name. Eight years his dwarf life spanned. He lived both indoors and out, often pursued by toddlers. He took everything in a cute yet charismatic stride. He liked the snow, and cuddles; disliked white cabbage. He would give you a look. This last year he had got arthritic. Should she tell her little daughter, my grown up Girl wonders? She feels silly for crying though she knows it's right. She knows the answer to her questi

Warmth on the face is traced to source: proof that the sun is gathering influence: that summer is not always absent. Enough warmth and light to ignite memories: so while the feet paddle now in the saturate field; the mud like clay slip; flip-flops are recollected, and hot beaches, and cold pretty drinks in dainty glasses, and other emblems of optimism that infuse a sense of steady contentment. Flowers will grow. Fruit will follow. 

The full moon in February is known as the Full Snow Moon, having the reputation of drawing down the deepest snowfall. Snow is scant, this year, here: blown far northwards. Friday brings another storm. It shakes until we fear it: so much pitch and toss we are not sure if we are on land anymore. Trees bend like seaweed. Limbs are broken. The sky is a surge of cloud: almost mythical. Car tyres catch on splintered wood, in the suck of flood puddles. It will be okay, I soothe; there's a bottle of wine waiting, a wedge of cheese. Glasses clean in the cupboard and the fire lit. It will be okay; the gears go down, the revs go up, the car pulls through, leaves a proud wake; there is red wine, a rich slice of Bowland cheese. The house lights are shining, multiplied in the slants of rain as the car reverses and is tucked alongside the stone shed, at an angle where the roof tiles won't slip through the windscreen. Hopefully. The glance up is squinted: automatic: stymied. Cloud

Oh pretty! In the lanes, Little Granddaughter sing-songs delight; plucks the white bells from their stems: why would anyone want to pick the stems? She peers avidly inside at the green petal stripes, the stamen's yellow flame. With these treasures she can buy several elephants. (That plain line of stem? A technicality.) At home, the elephant food must be mixed by hand. There are other things to do: sweep up, chop root veg, fill up the washing machine, reflect on life. But the elephants are hungry, Little Granddaughter says. Four bowls of acorns should suffice. Nam-ma look! Partially hypnotised by repetitive acorn pouring, Nam-ma looks up. Little Granddaughter presses the clear bottle to her face, distorts the familiar grin. Nam-ma bounces with surprised laughing. Oh, funny! At the table they sit, two warped chortlers.

Thinking of ice; of the inconvenience caused by the car doors' propensity to freeze; of a winter postcard drive with scarves and the heater slowly cranking; the car that works was wrapped last night in an old duvet cover. But this morning nothing is frozen, nothing stilled: storm wind flares the cover, rain streams the lanes, the ivy is blown off the house, bits of it whip over the ground, tentacle-ish. Every window is squeezed shut. No one looks forward to walking the dog: not even the dog. Time presses till there's no more excuses. Time for waterproofs; Wellingtons; walking. To venture under bending trees and test the depths of mud. But this afternoon sky is clear. Sunshine crinkles eyelids, turns water into gems. Beautiful is a shade of blue, a hue of green, a soft toned pebble: it's in the curve of the earth, in the open sky. The wind is charmed, gets sleepy, stops. Dark and cloud return together, like a curtain dropped. But then lightening; a thunde