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Numbers, Monsters And A Samurai Strawberry

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Polytunnel In Winter. Limes to the right, sprouts to the left. Mr and me read the sum of our achievements from last year’s signed off accounts. ‘Hmmm…’ (A phrase that should not be translated politely and thus is left as is.) One of us fills the kettle. Monsters stick with you, they are not just for childhood. They slick along the sidelines, breathing warmth into doubtful blooms. No escape is found in the winter garden. Under perspex shelter the lime has dropped its fruit. A wall of rain compounds the isolation. Why are we here? In this sad and beautiful place? One finger reaches out to trace the shape of a leaf. Imagines, gently, that this is the colour, perhaps the same curve, as a monster’s head? Smiles, then. Are they as you wish them, these slinking fears? Three times, four times? We have lost a home, made a new place for ourselves. It has been close. This feels close: teeth at heels. A sprout is pinched from a stem and crunched. There was a samurai, the

The Weather Channel

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Between the window and the bright sun is a heavy curtain of rain. Each drop falls shining. The ground becomes unstable, feet unable to direct, everything askance. Snow settles, makes mountain peaks out of  high moorland. Darkness snuggles down; unsettled snow flies under it, throws itself into adventures. What is best about cars in heavy weather: the view, un-squinted. As the moors pass, snow frequency lulls. Swirls in fine polkadots dance. Beyond this the sky whites with lightening, strikes awe. This morning hail stones, part melt, gather frogspawn-ish on a windscreen. They have a particular coldly weighted slump as the wipers clear. The view is grey-blue, ice-smeared, flat as a screen.

House Share At Lawhitton

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As winter moved in, so too the spiders. They had favoured the bathroom, redecorating corners with grey trails of silk. Little beady black species was superseded by the leggy danglers, the ones that swing in close proximity, as though trading gossip. Possibly about the mysterious slump in the population of the little beady black spiders? Do arachnids burp? House-spiders are shy this year, they blush behind furniture until we sleep: then who knows? Perhaps they make themselves tea and toast, switch on the lamp, perch up spectacles and read, crossing a few legs, passing opinion on local events. (Just because they’re cannibals does not mean that they are uncivilised.) Moths had called by and eaten part of Mr’s most comfortable trousers. Perhaps we do not understand their fashions: perhaps they had tried to make lace? Was it them that woke the butterfly? It is perplexing, yes, this inability to pursue understanding, yet in the margin for error is room to spin. I ask the ba

The Pebble Drops, And Will Always Drop

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For a moment, a wrong thing happens: a brow furrows up, a mind goes looking for a subject. Ha! Stillness arrives, like a round stone on a flat surface will pivot to stillness. Like a surprised pond will absorb ripple. This is how. Not immobile. Receptive. Not pursuant. An absorber. Not malcontent, rather there is something to learn, always. To practice. While the everyday occurs; a beer bottle left on a windowsill, a curious dog looks in a mirror; it occurs, it reoccurs. Not every day. This day.

I Got The Words Like Yoda

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An awareness of time, of where we pinpoint ourselves, this is the river stepped into, the daily scenery of our selves, the constant-same-old, ever-changing-flux. The scenic route, I have lived. Backdrop, it is not. Down by the Tamar, the real river adds umph to the metaphysics. It pounds like a muddy headache, thrills by speed, shoulders its boundaries aside. Ever newer waters, the old philosopher said? Flow on those who step in to their rivers. Heraclitus, who died of misanthropy, if the tales are true. He survives in fragments. I observe the river. Recall the rain cycle. This river, that cloud. This river, my blood. Your blood. Our stars, crossed or co-existent. Impermanent, always. The universe is us.

A Showgirl Goes On

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Silver shoes, as rehearsed, tread upon the boards. The audience are hush: she is a shade to them but they know to expect. Sole by sole she goes to the centre of the stage, puts one hand towards the limelight- She is afraid. The wings are full of doubts, of bills unpaid. Piles of darning in the dressing room. The flex of the kettle worn through. Reality is threadbare, and she has worked so hard to be this, to give this. She has so much less and so much more than the people out there in their chairs. They do not know. They are here for the performance. But what is her role? What happens next? She whispers it. But you know this, the prompt squints at her, this is your script. And you wrote it all pictures and moods, there are no words to be repeated. You would not be told, you said. You glued sequins all over the paper. Why yes! What happens next is of no consequence. No right, no wrong. Only be as you are. Dare to. She has her trademark smile. The light is citrus gre

Luna Lupa

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It was the morning of the first full moon.  The sky was growling as we stepped our boots along the lane, padding in shallow muds, poking puddles with toes to play with dark refections. At the foot of the hill we paused, though no-one could remember why: the sound of the stream running fast, how the rains had swelled it, perhaps; after the heron flew up before us, the blue grey wings, the beak-spear, the dangle of legs, that is all we could think of. Silver and blue, shoals of colour. How clear the moving water was, and the puddles, rain-refreshed, shone back in amber slices. It was the evening of the first full moon. Strange tides were calling us. (Even Dog kicked her legs in active sleep.) On the black river the moon would put a mark, a lit fingerprint. Like an intake of breath the waters had expanded.

What I Drink When I'm Drinking Coffee

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Look To The Sea

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‘Look at me, Granma!’ Grandchild 1 teeters at the surf edge. It’s shallow water, but lively. Every third set or so rushes in deeper. Pebbles smoothed and oval, large as ostrich eggs, are settled in the fine sand. The water brings out their warm colours. ‘Don’t you be looking at me my lovely- look to the sea!’ Granma shouts, as they have been playing pirates and some of the linguistic idiosyncrasies have stuck. It is good advice unless interpreted as ‘keep facing the sea and run backwards without taking any account of terrain.’ Grandchild 4 is wedged on a hip, gazing seaward. Granma squats to pick up Dog’s ball, thus missing the vital ‘but don’t run away without looking either, you might trip on a rock’ intervention point. Grandchild 1 finds himself sat, arse on sand, sea awash in his armpits. As instructed, he remains facing the swell, the surging white foam of it, wild as dragon spit. Granma has his arm grabbed. Dog runs past, carries her ball into the sea herself. G

Chalk Kisses And The Zen Of Sticks

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Rain nestles on the window pane. Grandchild 2 sits on the other office chair, eating peanut butter from a small jar. She laughs at the waggle in birds’ tails as starlings hop on the ash branches. They are silhouette puppets to her. Steampunk cloud sails in on a quickening squall. Starlings are sprung to flight. We watch. On the storm scale from eye-opening to life-threatening, this measures at come-to-the-beach. Weary faces in the town, a hard night spent midwifing the New Year. Without their ritualising, perhaps it would breech, fail to arrive. We had watched Lilo and Stitch, drunk up some vodka with coconut milk, called to our year all our love for it. An easy beginning. A mother, her daughter, her daughter’s daughter, they blink in the sanded wind, shut the car doors. Dog gets underfoot, too impatient. On the sand Dog squats, too excited. Everyone is happy now for the gale to blow, salt scented. Granma carries the bag up to the bin. Mess is not a surprise: but r

Diadem

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2014, a midwinter’s morning. Winter courts spring with a bridal gown. Laid on earth’s bare skin, the perfection of each crystalline stitch, divine. It is melting, under shallow pools of sun. A gem would not melt in this meagre heat: but we are temporary, we should understand. A diamond is a thing of beauty, yet the pursuit of it, too costly. Laden with servitude, it shines sadly. In the embroidered earth a moment holds, a proposal, a sign of hope sturdier than the materials that spark it. A memory: a memory arrives - 1977, an early summer’s afternoon. There was then a smaller version of me; I can observe her, as though she exists, independent of her adult self. She had brought her necklace to school, a trinket from her Grandma, it dangled a bright jewel, like something from the Raj. She liked to wear it on her head, in the style of a warrior princess. Light fell and caught the dust as she led the class to the cloakroom and all the parents said how sweet she was.

The '77 Port Moment

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‘This is for our Christmas Day.’ The Chap rolls a bottle of port before our boggled eyes. 1977, vintage. The price tag says what? ‘It’s my new tradition.’ He says, perhaps because he’s eighteen years old. Time will let us know. Christmas Day gathers just the three of us this year. The port is opened; the old cork crumbles, we utilise a tea strainer, two decanters, hide them in the pantry, next to the oats. Breakfast is a slab of hot brioche with extra butter. Clear dry cold sky, a platinum light: we wrestle old bicycles into it, dust them, plump up tyres. Dog runs and somehow avoids an accident. We stop at the house of Grandchild 2, swap gifts, legs gently steaming. Dog commando-crawl sneaks onto the front room carpet from the kitchen tiles. Everyone smirks. Wrapping paper makes a comforting debris. We take the long road back, because of the sky, because of fun. ‘Our mission today,’ I shout, with vibrato over potholes, ‘is not to get too trolled before

Hello Girls And Boys!

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Firstly, a quick reorganisation of the grandchildren. They number only four thus far (‘only’ as in ‘not an unmanageable number,’ not only as in, ‘ that it?’) so it may seem- random interruption- forthy- is that a word anyone else knows?- ‘forthy’ means here ‘to be precocious’- short form of ‘forwards’ - -forthy to be having this tidy up. Explanation: It is easy when surrounded by these outpourings of future grown ups, to be thinking forwards, it is the time of year for clear-ups. So henceforth shall Little Grandson be Grandchild 1, Little Granddaughter be Grandchild 2 : and so on.They are ordered by age not popularity. We do like to organise them. Not to classify but to direct. Take this Christmas lark, for example. Nothing is begrudged , yet just as a surfeit of food can cause bloating, a surfeit of stuff can clog the soul. What gift can be brought without fear of clog, without loss of fun? Memories. We aim to give a whole set. Memories are made from formative

Christmas Story 2014

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This year's Yuletide story offering is a little early- I was planning a Solstice post for Sunday. Last Winter Solstice I got lost on Dartmoor just as it was falling dark... but this year the grandchildren are taking me to watch a pantomime. It will be safer but easily as busy, so I'm posting now instead. Happy Holidays to all! How The Snowdrops Bloomed Ice crusted over every surface, like the world was an ice pie. A fire in the wide hearth had been lit for days, slowly warming the stone walls of the cottage. Sat close, two people unlaced their damp boots and wiggled their toes at the flames. They formed a small family. A child, a girl of six. A widower, her father. Their cottage edged woodland; from this wood they fed their fire and their bellies. Over the fire was an iron pot; in this they cooked good winter soup. Next to the fire was a jug. The widower, now and then, found work at a farm. As payment, the farmer and his family sent over a jug of milk on

Where The Weekend Went

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Friday night, a jug of rum. Lawhitton. We creep to our garden and spy on the frost. It feels like dreams can find you better, if you go out into the dark. Saturday morning, sat on the porch step, numbing buttocks, drinking coffee. Morning sun makes steam plumes along grassed edges. Sky wakes up all tumbled, bits of cloud, blue, mist, squints of sun. Mr sleeps in, wrapped in dream and quilt. When he wakes up, just as tumbled as the sky, he calls to come and see: a robin has snuck into our kitchen, to spy on us. So tiny, that bird, we see: the world so big and wintry. With boldness he thrives. We admire. It stays warm, the sun, we sit out, drink more coffee. And one more coffee. Saturday afternoon, all of a sudden. We forgot about time. Launceston. In the carpark, stuck in a queue, making alternative plans: a space, all of a sudden. Free parking, the sign says. This is encouraging. In the town hall doting families gather. Children can be heard through the closed d

Queen Mab

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This is not the work of winter alone: Queen Mab has been loose in the night. The horses’ manes will be atrocious! Slender branches strew the lanes: the old ash tree must be suspected of complicity, for it has lost but twigs. One unbroken piece of moon is left wedged in morning sky; behind dull cloud stripes of blue and pink fuzz like flannelette. Is she sleeping now? Our ribs hold anxious beats. Of what does she dream? The more we stare at the sky, the more the cirrostratus thickens. In the thin fall of rain a whisper: of what do you dream? 

Winter The Eccentric

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Winter, for all her stark chic, is a secret hoarder.  She has a thing for extremities. We ward her away with gloves, warming socks, impervious boots, snug hats. She is horribly curious and will crawl inside your chest to look around, sliding cold through your damp lungs. It is best to keep skin under thermal surveillance. She makes water-glass, for looking in, in spite of the fish gaping below; yet for all her thievery, her stealth of trespass, her vanity, she marvels us. She is her own kind of beautiful, as is all true beauty. Without her, the grate has no fire, the hats and gloves are dropped, unappreciated. Spring’s bulbs push slow roots through her iced ground. Perhaps she nips at fingertips to feed them. Winter, like a mother bird, raising her cuckoo. Pity is superfluous. She is made of universal stuff: present in all seasons.

The Plan Revealed

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It is our belief that a crazy plan will do more good than harm. This is why we are often to be found drawing plans for hillbilly hot tubs and underground gardens. Heat regulation is the main staller with the former, the latter is preparation for when we own land. And this is beginner level crazy (intermediate elsewhere, perhaps, but we live in rural Cornwall) not far from simply dreaming. One giant shed, one polytunnel, one almost finished bath-pond testify that we can make ideas tangible. Based on this, and other little things, like compassion, like stories shared, we have been forming a bigger plan. Here’s the rough outline: we acquire land we build and/or develop a self sustaining community this community is part made up of isolated folks trying to get a foothold in general society we run a business or two from the land (farming, crafts, camping site, etc) How on earth do we make this happen? How will it work? Slowly, with much head scratching, ingenuity, internet traw

Frosting

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The number six turns into a frying pan. The number eight splits into two circles. Number six becomes a spoon, it dollops icing on both circles of eight, which are now cakes. At this point, dreaming is suspected. Awake, the interpretation takes no effort. Yesterday marked the 68th year since my father was born into this world, and since he isn’t here any more a dream-cake is offered. Outside, the world is enriched. Pale gold, the winter sun. From the car, from blades of grass, in swathes across the fields, verglas glints. Starlings, jet dark, bloom up with a noise like sails catching a headwind. One memento mori crow watches from the ash tree. On the way to her nursery Little Granddaughter sits in the car, kicking up her welly boots and lying about breakfast. ‘I had chocolate,’ she says, ‘and butter and frogs and a sheep.’ ‘No toast?’ ‘Yes and a tree and marmite and sprinkles. Sprinkles are pretty.’ She looks out of the window. In the town, the ice has melted. There i

Winter's First Calendar Day

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Nothing much is scheduled. The same drift of cloud loops over a low hill. Everything else is mist. Just over the line, just out of physical sight, a future crouches. Out of the corner of a whimsical eye: palm trees, pineapples, postcard colours. On a salt breeze comes laughter, comes glass to glass chinking. Perhaps we’ll walk over there. Perhaps is a word of possibility. Mud shines, mist lifts, sun, emergent. Tips of fingers bare and chill, toes in boots warm as crumpets. We walk just the usual paths with nothing much scheduled; hum a little something. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…