Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Photo credit: Gareth Lloyd, sourced from Facebook Red dust shook up, till the sun could be stared at, flat-edge-blurred, as though it were being reforged. The storm like a bellows through fire came, twisting trees till all the deadwood fell. We watched to see if it might char. Leaves blew like sparks, carmine, citrine, circulating. A storm is not strange in October, but - warm air, no rain? A tropical tempest? What untypical witchery is afoot? Skin aglow, on a short car journey, we were laughing at how hairstyles were impossible serpents, and no clothing could be still (every passerby was a bag of snakes) and then, in a sheltered spot, how three cautious geese poked their heads from a gate before venturing the lane. What - warm air no rain witchery, and no black cat? No hare? No bat? Shuffle bottomed geese look back, lest we think to read their entrails. Photo credit: Mike Batson, Southend On Sea Facebook page

Tuesday. A clear sky, a fine Autumnal time. Leaves that fall are all gold, on the branches green keeps hold. Mist in the morning, rolling on the river. The afternoon bright, mild, cooling. Grandchild 2 at the school door, talking-talking, she forgot her bag, she goes back for it. There's an apple sale but our freezer is full, pockets empty. Never mind, she gets hugs from her friends on the stroll to the car, talking-talking, see her reading book, it's called ‘My Mum Is Going To Explode!’ No baby news yet, for this Almost Big Sister. She is happy, staying with grandparents, staying up late, going training, and her old friend Dog to boss about. Tuesday is fine, though no Mum exploded. Modern medicine has not prevailed. Wednesday. Grandad put sugar on the last bowl of cereal. Grandchild 2 is not a sugar fan - she has a poached egg replacement. (Hopefully she didn't put the breakfast mistake in her journal.) Grandad makes his second redemption by showin

I found this author via Radio 4, Desert Island Discs. Having spent so many years without the funds for new books, I am unaware of many writers whose work I would otherwise be munching up. Of course the 50p box at the second hand store has delivered me many unusual delights, no need for sympathy - but I heard Ali talk and thought, I like her, I want to read those books. So when I could, I bought a brand new paperback. I had been working long hours and the first page swam in front of me for a while. It seemed too dense, I couldn't get through it. Such disappointment! Luckily this was just tiredness - for which I will accept some sympathy because I am tired again today - this week I have clocked 97 hours!  Anyway, we should discuss the book, now I’ve told you how honest-poor and hard working and admirable I am (grins, sheepish, impish). Two stories, one of a young girl whose mother has died, and one of a renaissance artist, are told and spliced without it seeming incongr

Just a structure, at first. A ring of metal that sits, foot-swaddled in tarred sand.  (It has a big lid, like a witch's cook pot, and here we are in the woods…) We learn how to stack logs inside, how the layers wheel out, how positioning of sizes is guided by pockets of future heat. It is good work, smelling cut wood, eyeing grain-whirls, hands on bark, the muffled drop of getting each piece in optimal place.  Even the rain is fun, a challenge.  Stacked, lidded, sealed with a slick of sand. Into the middle of our sculpture fire is set.  An effigy for burning, unseen - well, we may peek with mirrors through out-pipes, witness a glow - but should we crack the lid the fumes would ignite - we should all burn. Potential annihilation has an awe, a draw, even before the smoke seeps across our feet and the squat ring takes on a life.  Is it a portal, to a world of steam and light? It is something new, hypnotic, pluming, turning. We ar

Late in August warm air sunk to the ground, cooler air dropped to our shoulders. We had felt the thermal transfer - thought of skin softly clothed, cinnamon and blackberries bubbling under pastry.  We felt hot work easing, the loss of hot lazing.  Rich greens remain, and summer bright blooms. Nasturtiums flare up, like small fires.  We smelt tree bark, apple skin, damped wood smoke. Peripheral autumn. But no season just becomes.  It is a weaving. (Spring in every bud, summer in every petal, autumn in every seed, winter in every root, or however you wish to follow the thread.) In the hedge two spiders tango on a web - a match, or a meal for one? Berries drop into our cache: sloe, hip, haw, black: a heap of jewels. Harvest secured, we snuck through tall maize, to feel the leaves grab, and drop rain down our backs. We were racing, laughing, till we saw the bird sat: injured, by a jaw-snap. Too injured for us to mend, and fright wo