Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

In the eleventh day of Operation Relocate Domicile. In another 29 days it actually might be over, bar the fruit garden, but we will approach that as a separate manoeuvre. Tomorrow, new home chimneys are to be swept and the Rayburn lit. New Farmer Landlord says we can have wood from his shed, if we don’t mind cutting it down; do we have a chainsaw? Of course we do, it’s one of the few things that has set us aside from medieval peasants. We have been used to cutting down our own wood, in branches or by whole tree; chopping and dragging it by bits up the steep slippery stony thorny thistle strewn fields of Rosehill. Visceral, close to nature: also tiresome, time consuming. Mr can drive down to the shed in New Farmer Landlord’s yard, bring back all the wood on one trip. My grin is so huge it curves off the earth like buffalo horns. In honour of the hours spent, in celebration of the hours freed, here are eleven verses from a paused project, a poem of 1,000 ‘miracles,’ which I w

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can be embodied in a scrumptiously eye popping cup of coffee. Still love a splash of Java Sumatra, and Guatemalan Elephant, but since the discovery of Vietnamese Weasel, Va Va Voom! The aroma of it sends me… back to my honeymoon (explaining the big love hit) back through history; into a place of hot fascination, a place that steps with me, out of time, into the construction of a personal mythology. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can perk up everything, even if you wake up too early. My decision is to make coffee And sit, watching the colours Change, outside; the pink Underbelly of mackerel cloud Somewhere in the fridge is a tin Of coffee. This week we are drinking Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind Maybe this started as a practical joke But whoever ground up the beans from The weasel’s p

I'm not sure this picture does justice to the flaming colour hidden inside damson wood. We pick a lot of damsons and make many pots of jam and chutney. It's a beautiful colour, as most fruits are, and it never occurred to me that damson logs would be every bit as bright, in an oppositional colour. 451 All day the aeroplanes Will pass overhead, regular Cloud stripes tracing lines of Escapes and returns 452 There are holidays, business trips Emigrations, travels of many applications My best reason for travel is that you often see What you have best from a distance 453 Some people walk the earth To find nothing, some people Take one step to find everything Even if it isn’t perfect 454 The branches are assessed, they are Re-angled for dividing down into log sizes The first two cuts make a platform, two Wood lengths, to rest the branch across 455 The chainsaw zips through Each suspended branch The air sm

Our amateur tree surgery efforts are quite addictive, because it's so utterly satisfying to see the wood pile stack up and know that there will be fires this winter. We are gathering our own comfort and the exercise endorphins give the task some swift returns. We often combine the hedge forages with some coppicing for extra gratification.  441 Mr climbs the boundary of dry wall Steadies himself with booted feet Planted firmly down against granite Stones, against ungainly trunk of tree 442 Chainsaw rattles. Mr tests the elected angle It is uncomplicatedly reachable. Serrated Blade rotates slickly through the branch Drops it down onto the old buckled roof 443 I drag the cut wood clear Admire the twist of it Solid muscular against soft Textured fuzzes of field grass 444 Tangible overhead, a block Of solid-blue sky. The branch Is a compact mass, is weight Pressed against the ground 445 I trace the strain in my leg

Getting up too early and bravely doing the washing up has the distinct advantage of allowing the mid morning slump to be thoroughly exploited. Both Mr and me get fidgety though, we like doing stuff best of all. I love aquariums. Fish are always doing stuff, and they mostly look relaxed.  431 Since reluctant waking broke me From my agreeable bed, a lengthy time Has lapsed, seems like it’s not lazy to snooze Here in the shade of this blaze, it’s earned 432 Kicked back to full recline I do not slide all the way into sleep My eyes rest. I hear dog panting From the shelter of the pallet table 433 Mr talks to the cat; he gets bored Being prone. He takes his rest pottering About, looking things over, checking if He should water the tub plants, indecisive 434 It transpires that the hosepipe is handy Mr will bring a shower to the tub flowers And the damp earth will smell Delicious to me, like a forest floor 435 I am averse but r

When sunny days are not frequent or expected it is only polite and sensible to make the most of the lovely relaxing cheerful moment. Ideally, a kayak, a big lake and a picnic, but if it means lying in a sunshine rectangle in a bikini in the bed-sit window, then you should do it. I have, and it makes life a bit ridiculous in a very healthy way. Here I only wrestle the rusty sun lounger chair out of the Museum of Agricultural Artifacts and Sundry Articles (this is what we call the shed.)  421 Mid morning quiet lazy time Arrives, it’s too hot for cups of tea I will find my sunglasses and drink cold Coffee from a china cup and saucer 422 Smug and swelling The fat late green Tomatoes have been Waiting for this extra sun 423 This moment can be maximised With some effort, the reclining chair Is heaved from the shed, I give myself Permission to indulge in lounging 424 I have both book and magazine Sun cream that smells like coconut

Fire making is a very important part of living in our house. Without it, we are cold and so is the water that comes out of the hot tap. It takes a lot of ignition to get a lyme log to burn, you have to mix them in with the more amenable woods, like alder and sycamore. Good thing we have plenty of overgrown hedges to scavenge through. It's hard work, but these are satisfying steps to take. 411 The art of fire making is in the ignition Raising the heat from a spark in spindled bundles Sustaining the flame to burn sizeable fuel Cut from the dense hedges 412 From the mass, single branches Are shaken out. The brittle skinny ends Broken off, bunched and fixed with twine From the bulky twine roll 413 This is the satisfying old fashioned skill Of faggot making. Each one represents A future fire lit, as nights draw in and frost Thinks of appearing in daylight 414 Twigs thicken to sticks, snapped In even lengths, until we need the saw

My fictitious (but firmly based in the actual) day has 410 miracle moments noted now. Mr has constructed a go-cart to bring wood up from the fields, as we can't afford a quad, the ground is often very boggy and the paths are growing in faster than we can clear them. Plus, the cart is massive fun.  The ash tree at the field entrance has grown more rapidly than expected.  The wheelbarrow is still useful for smaller jobs, and the go-cart is harder to explain in four lines, hence the wheelbarrow is rolled out here.  401 Handles lifted, the wheelbarrow trundles Under the solid bay tree, under the tangle Of wild rose busy lacing a bower over An old dumped heap of empty things 402 The ash tree sapling we talked of Digging up is thickening into Firewood, the roots are Too deep for spadework 403 Boy will be dragging exercise books From his bag, ready to learn facts Processes and the sardonic Exchange of wit 404 Dog reads the