Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

On Monday the first thing I take note of is a waning gibbous moon. A blue-silver bloom floating in pale morning sky. Two cloud tufts make eyes, the moon makes a button nose, a face more awake than mine. Cold takes hold of my fingertips, brings attention to frosted car windows. A visible sigh in the beautiful air. It’s Monday and I need to drive. Blow a kiss to the mouthless moonface, grab the ice scraper. (Call yourself petal out loud, no else is awake to know about it. List the things to be done: do this, do the next thing. Get it done, petal.) Yesterday we trailed to Exmouth, piled the little car high with boys and dogs, took them to the beach. Grandchild 1, Grandchild 4. Two of our counted blessings. One football, a few squabbles: the usual brother-banter. A slimmed down Fat Beagle, a springy Dog who would ache later. A dog’s ball for throw and fetch. (For spaniel Dog, for this is her vital work. Beagle is more about the scents and the schmooze.) No sooner do we ...

Dedicated to the memory of Laura Denaire Harris 19th May 1975 ~ 31 October 2018 We travel a road copper-edged in dropped leaf. Under crooked branches a filigree of gold and shade falls upon us. A burst of starlings, as though blown from the boughs: silhouettes swooping through blue, in a bloom of sunlight. We cross a shining river on a sturdy bridge, each arch has a shadow-shimmer on the water below. Pass a thatched cottage where a rose shakes in the bite of the breeze. The air has no warmth beyond the sun’s reach. We walk through the town to find the right church; pass paramedics kneeling by a man who is prone on the street in a sleeping bag. There are people at a cashpoint queuing, subdued. Passersby viewing with concern. A busker without a coat, his face pinched pink. Shops open, some lit for Christmas. In a gilded doorway, a couple ask directions from a lady who points as she speaks. We find the church, the hearse...

If I wash my hair today ,   tomorrow  I could schedule in some combing.  Not to glorify busy, if messy hair is a glorification. I forget. It could be fashionable , if that word still exists. Anyway, here I am babbling: poor time management;  though  most things seem to be getting done; the big picture is a body of water - me and my task list are bouncing over it, skimmed stones – I'm not at all sure if I know what I’m doing but I’m doing it.    There’s a destination which we may or may not reach. Even r est time is skittish :   yet t his  fear is relished – if only all fear were like this!    Doubt is less popular. The work ahead is a weight I haven’t fully figured how to shoulder.     Did I ever figure out any previous burdens?   Luckily, no! An encouraging precedent!      When I am standing on the shore, a real shore, and the air is gathering chill and the water is silky...

A Midnight Mermaid One eye opens. Lines of light drop between each beam’s shadow. That repetitive shoosh becomes sand dragging under waves. This is the beach house. Beyond the conservatory roof is the moon, it has pulled the tide high. Your feet want to be on the sand, it’s all you think of - that beach, that light, how it catches the tilt of the sea. The salt tang. The feel of sand under bare feet. So your feet go to the floor, your arms pull into a gown, your palm presses the door handle. Outside is exactly right. Silvered, doused in magic. Shoosh, shoosh. A warm press from the air. The press of your feet in cooling sand. There- There in the white break something rolls, fluid as the water, shining. Shoosh… A hand spills from the wave, a shining hand. The shock is a thrill. This is night magic, you are sure of it. You crouch; creep closer. Strands of hair flow in, flow out. A figure slender, dense with muscle. ...