Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

At midnight still butter pools in its dish. Dog rouses for a drink, pads back towards her bed, lies on the floor, sighs defeat. Ice chinks in nettle beer. The clouds have swallowed a full moon, and nothing cools in digestion. We lie like butter in our salt puddles, dream of emerging, evolved. For now, like Dog, we surrender. Pad, pad, slowly to our beds. Sand is welded to our soles. Close eyes, recall that push, that cooling incoming tide. Dog twitches in her sleep. Mr hums a snore. There’s no sleep here for me. Downstairs, where the windows are left open, a freed moon shines.

Where clouds are rift, blue shows. Rain holds. Air holds damp, birdsong, scents of earth. Palette of the day, silver-greys, green, dots of bright flower. A heart is prised open, this beauty stuffed in. Seeking remedy, not respite. Yesterday was sun and rain. Foxgloves, bolt upright, held their colour. I stole a rose to make tea; first to breathe the steam, then to sip. I had coffee, rich and deep. I had banana tea, sweet and cheerful. This morning the sky is variant silver. Coffee brews. Wild strawberry pancakes on the hob; one gets burnt when Dog gives chase to a cat and must be herself chased back inside perimeters. Dog feels sorry for herself, confined. We pretend stern. Petal frail, she sends apologies: I can’t do anything, she says. But you’ve done it all, we say, it’s our turn now and that’s how it comes to balance. Granma Grace smiles. I like her without the dentures, somehow, it represents her being her, no matter what is reduced; that kind spirit being irr...