Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Hills are okay. They have an easy goal: get to the top, eye the view, then it’s downhill, legs follow gravity. On the flat, goals are the next tree, the next corner, always a succession, not like the one easy hilltop. Flat running is not my favourite. Today, between markers of gate and tree, the road is obstacled with iced mud, the air uncomfortably chill. I lose grip, underfoot and in mind, breathing cold irregular air, shoulders tensed solid. Unsure if I am shivering or shaking, a screaming noise arrives, or I think it does; I am dropped in fear and sinking. At the point where sanity seems to have deserted me, Dog leaps into the hedge, flushes out a fox with a mad rabbit in its jaws. Fox drops Rabbit, Dog is making a decision, Rabbit runs, right across my boggled path, into a hole, Fox streaks up the lane, Dog chooses: she chases Fox; returns shortly, tail in a wag spin. ‘Can you do that every time I doubt myself?’ I ask her. We round the corner and run. Dog has her

On the day of the Snow Moon we bring the lime tree indoors.  In the polytunnel plant pots were huddled and coddled; still some had frozen; the broad bean was stricken, it may not recover. The lime had dropped fruit and leaf. Our house is not capacious. Fitting the tree in makes a puzzle of the front room furniture: for if the tree goes here, where does the table go? And if the table goes there, does the sofa fit? Dog curls on the sofa for refuge before she gets brave and in the way. She finds that, in its new position, there is room to accommodate her habit of sneaking under the table to look out for dropped food. A mat is laid under the plant saucer to keep outdoor dirt from the carpet: she is determined to lie on it. Shooed back to the sofa she keeps an eye on us, an eye on the interloper. Outside Dog and I have the run of three frozen fields. Sun throws light, it breaks into a thousand icy splinters, right under our feet. Every old puddle changes; there are micro l

Snow dabs the contours of a squinting face, fleeting, fleecy, light: the fingerprints of a curious element. Footsteps press markers around the lanes, leave an easy pace of clue. We took the longer route today. Mr is cycling, another circuit that will cross with this.  Will he make it back unscuffed? Dog pads at any pace she pleases. Under the snow flat ice hides. At Treniffle we see his tyre tracks, they make a snake print. Dog follows scent clues, down the steep dip, up the long steep other side. Slowly running is easier, should that be a surprise? Not in theory but this is not theory, it is experience. Laughter flows openly, it curls warm and visible and here is the very top of the hill, here is the view to stop for. Dog sniffs, pulls a face like smiling. The tyre tracks pull in under our feet. Exactly here. At home, coffee brews; heat seeps from the Rayburn’s bright coals. Mr fries two eggs. ‘Did you go round the triangle?’ He shakes the pan. ‘Did you see

Rain falls in blue grey thick twists. It falls so loud there are no other sounds. The water-ropes fray, let loose the gold sun, the birdsong. One tractor rolls, sprays mud. It had rained all night. Drop-thud on the lean-to roof was our lullaby. Clouds smudge the sun to a silver light. Cold invokes weariness. Steam from a kettle, smell of coffee brewing. Pressing hands around warm mugs. Rain falls in blue grey thick twists. It falls so loud there are no other sounds.

Walking brings on thinking. Why do I stop to observe dead things? Because of curiosity, foremost. What is this, what was this, how came it here? Claw scrabble, infirmity? Questions, clues. Curiosity, foremost. But under that, imbued into that, a tenderness. Here is a relic of a life story all told. ‘The End.’ No more breaths, and yet? Yet more: that thing is not devoid of energy. It exists, physically. The physical world is made of energy. That connection holds. 

Went for a run, slow paced, post cough, pre-snowmageddon. Clouds huddled, gave no weather clues. Dog’s fur flared, silky waves over a clippy trot. Snowdrops shook their stooped heads, stems quivering like laughing shoulders do. Two miles, hilly, then home. Mr feels better, he makes fried egg sandwiches and coffee. We are in the office, then, attendant on paperwork. From the window, cattle are viewed, they stand, seemingly morose, hooves sunk in mud. One robin hops a branch length on the old ash, plucks out midmorning snacks. One bullock turns his chunk of head up to the open field. He follows his line of sight, invigorated. 

The moon, the sun’s mirror, keeps slivery watch. Eery eyed Dog starts up, glares at the torchlight. Trees of starlings clatter, burst into shoal. Pheasants set off clockwork whirs of wing. Over an arterial river geese call, ducks call. Cows are bleary in the shadowed fields. Boots scoot through thin mud. Ice is forecast. It seems warm for the hour, for the season. All those feathers, holding in some heat.