Of Leaves And Socks And Banana Soup

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 chicken ice cream and banana soup.
‘Noooo!’ Her snort is remarkable endearing.
Outdoors she forgets her boots and her socks are first wet then lost.