Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

This morning’s mist lingers as though it had forgot where it meant to go. It worries itself to a warmish haze. Some of the cows lie down, similarly bemused. The hedgerows’ first rush of abundance is cooler, slower. In the stone shed a deep freeze rumbles, thumping cold at boxed windfalls till they ice: it will take a day or two and the apple press needs fixing. Meanwhile holes are dug for damson saplings that have each been raised from foraged fruit, that have been pushing out of pots with longing roots. In the back field maize grows unreasonably tall, it spikes up over the hawthorn trees. It whispers not words but feelings and enticements, it calls to the story in us. We want to know where it goes, of course, that story-path that is the sum of work and nature.

Across the car park a few leaves scuffle noncommittally. They are new to this, their movements unsynchronised, lightly wooden. Out of lit streets cars roll, caught slow in lines behind combines, trundling hay lorries. Headlights strobe variant shapes in roadside foliage, a country road rendering of the Northern Lights. Clear night, misty morning, sun and cloud afternoon. The weather pattern repeats but the heat fades. On an organised day a washing load will dry on the line. Little Granddaughter visits. She loves her expedition collecting dung for the garden, down by the cowshed. She friends the cows, liking this one best, then that one, then ten all at once but only because she only has that many fingers but she loves them all and babies, she loves babies too. Indoors she plays a game of doing her work, which is writing, making soup and picking up the dog’s poo. Outdoors she raids the tomatoes and makes her own rainbows with hosepipe water. Indoors she helps Granma cook up

Every morning is mist. Afternoons simmer till we float poached, feeling lazy, strangely refreshed. Down at the river summer lingers, trailing hot fingers in the water. A wade out will become a swim. The mud stirs up but the sun turns it topaz-gold: it will be the leaves next. Everything will cool down but the treetops will blaze. On Sunday evening we lit a fire. The Chap brought out his wooden ship, the one he built so carefully as a boy, the one with tiny balsa planes and a fine layer of dust and cobweb. He brought out his bottle of dark rum. One ceremonial tip of rum went on the ship, one went into his mouth. A fir branch flared the flames: onto the fire went the beloved replica. We watched, we let it go. For no particular reason I think of one afternoon when the electricity had run out. My son was four years old or thereabouts. It was autumn, perhaps that’s the reason. We had a key meter for the electric, the key could be recharged with cash at the local garage. I had put on

This picture is for the memory of Tina Downey, with whom I no more than shared a few emails and the fun of a few A-Z blog challenges. She loved sunflowers and was as cheerful as these scatty petals. I am sorry for her loss. I hope a legacy of cheerfulness is some comfort to her family and friends. Those of us who knew her briefly through blogging are posting pictures of sunflowers today in tribute  to a bright soul. If you have lost someone who made you smile this is for you too. Cheerfulness and love endure. 

Overnight a coverlet of mist soothes thirsty fields, settles restless limbs with its skilled easing of heat. After a long sleep weariness is loathe to leave. Coffee is the answer, probably. The kettle is filled. Yawning goes with stretching: why is that? Strength 5 the packet announces. Full bodied, robust. That should rout the weariness, of which we are bored: this is inevitable. Tired people have little patience. Somewhere nearby a cow snorts. And we lack concentration, probably. Or decisiveness? Several more nasal expulsions follow. We drink coffee and pretend that bovines do not care for colder weather. They will not miss the horsefly bites though, no more than we will. Perhaps the snort was aimed at the back of summer? Their derisiveness is in vain for the sun soon burns away mist and makes hard cakes from mud. Yesterday was bright with summer colours from the start. Little Granddaughter stomped welly boots to the riverside; nettle-stung, unphased, she stopped to pick a dock

All new worlds bring opportunity for bravery. Here I am, typing on a silver sliver in yesterday’s same cramped office so the sensation of standing as though at the opening of a breathtakingly vast airlock to discover a new world is disproportionate, somewhat… Microcosmic, I settle for that explanation. My tiny world navigates and connects with The Future World. There should be no barriers now, all communication should flow, just as soon as I work out which buttons to press. All new worlds also bring burdens of learning which can alter one’s perception of the journey. Overall one must chant something inspirational along the lines of: This is by choice This is my journey This is not actual space travel with limited oxygen Time is finite for people so get on with it Cool view Remember why you started. Not beautifully phrased but workable. This new machine that I have unpackaged, plugged in, lumped a load of untidy files onto is a continuation of a choice made on how I would

This day starts smoky from our bonfire. The heat is blown through by a pleasing wind as ash scatters over the washing, over the cut grass. We had cooked potatoes in the flames, got them just right, blazed up inside a pile of ivy root. We watched the woody stems twist. In agonies, Mr said, making mock-horror. They are just born, I contradicted; fire snakes, they wriggle into being. Overhead were stars and dark and one aeroplane flying and the shadowy tall pines. Nearby, blackberry wine, two glasses. In the polytunnel this morning mould is found, it blights the tomato stems. A procession of tainted foliage trails to the hedge and back. Two pots of crisis cropped fruits pause on the picnic table while the fridge is reorganised. To have one's head in the fridge is coolly angelic. The phone rings, it is one of my Dear Readers with some hot tips for Chapter One. She is halfway through the novel so far, in spite of her computer troubles. I agree with her assessments, though