Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

They climb down the lea of the hill. No one walks here but us. Above is a pitch of wind, unearthly. Water pours. If a mist drops, can I navigate? Keep the sound of the water to your right. Out of the crooked gorse they walk, to a clear crossing, shallow, over flat stones. 'I find it!' Little Granddaughter says. On the other side of the river she tires and takes a shoulder ride. Crow-birds hop. Sheep poo is pointed out, and the flights of linnets from a circling Dog. They are babies, she tells Nam-ma, whispers; 'tiny-baby-birds' regards their flight with indulgent pride. Not too cold for ice cream yet!

A zirconium string : the Plymouth road clusters with headlights, lures the quiet passenger up from wordless thoughts. Sparkle is created here, of a sort that will not rival any star: a mundane piece of loveliness: shine in a domestic setting. In the cars whole other lives drive by houselights of more lives. Something about that passing, that unknowingly shared point of time and space: the emotive commonplace in all lives. Up the Tavistock hill they drive, looking behind them at the axled bling of carnival rides, hear the faint squeals from Goose Fair.

We have been running free in the woods again, Dog and I, following knots of pathway. Around us trees bend and snake in deliberate shapes, brambles set sinuous ankle traps, fallen logs are my balance beams. Dog is puff and leaf-smacking wag: when she is gone on her chases I hear leaves break stem and land. Spiders throw galleon lines: they love to play Pirates. It doesn't have to make exact sense, it is what you want it to be; so we run and we are as we wish.  If there is a means to break this spell I will never seek it.

Dog and me walk in dawn mist. Sails and lines web the trees: mesmerize. On the shadowed path I freeze: there is sound behind us, unrecognized. A slow turn shows nothing unexpected: the river is higher: the river catches the bank. A thump of water is the cause! Enlightened, press on: note new points of swirl, the aerial spun silks. As the daylight begins its drop, Dog and me walk in damp field grass; gleaming and fat bladed it is. Feather-scatter marks a kill site: one pale pigeon body rests in the swell of green fronds. Autumn is not all dropped leaf.

Saturday is an early start. Before the sun rises from shapes in mist there is bacon, beans, egg and toast. I forgot my sunglasses, have to squint across Devon to the palm trees of Paignton, until I am in the hall that echoes with anxieties and gathered friends. Today I wear my yellow shirt: it means I am here to shoot troubles, shush nerves, mop stuff up. Today I have a solo small boy to usher, and one lost, and three wrong divisions in two adjacent rings. I have some permissions for photography to liase, one post-fight cry, one pre-fight potential sickness. Where am I queries go uncounted. Two please don't let me miss my fight but I need the loo dilemmas, one sorry kids you missed your call. One big yell for a medic to the men's tag team event. One bout of fielding medical questions to a crowd of puzzled children. A dislocated knee, I tell them, rarely fatal, often painful. Yes, to hospital, I tell them, he can have an anesthetic then while the patella is repositioned

At the night window one brown moth is drawn through the rain. It has no concept of glass, only an obsession for a naked bulb. In pity for this scurry, the blind is lowered. Instead of night there is black silk. Inside the night window, under the bared electric, one writer sits and stares at a screen, listening for the sound of moth wings.

Little Granddaughter tells Nam-ma that whistling is not possible. Nam-ma observes the weather, she says: 'We should go to the beach and get wet and take dry clothes and eat…' 'Ice cream! Look Nam-ma!' But Nam-ma has to keep her attention on the road so they don't crash. Little Granddaughter goes careful down the steps in a pour of rain. 'Come on Fats,' she calls to the beagle. He lumbers first then limbers up, has some moments: puppyish. Dog flies off: a boomerang hound, round and back again. They walk over snaky wild rivers, wade the Widemouth keys, the miniature mountains of low tide rocks. Grandad has the wrong boots for braving the waves: Nam-ma misjudges both depth and speed. Everyone has wet socks. 'Ice cream?' Little Granddaughter remembers. On the way back she proves herself quite wrong: sallies forth a passable whistle.