A Gift From The Dragoon

A gift from the Dragoon to take my darling Dorris.
A gift from the Dragoon? From his loyalty or from his longing?

A gift my darling, from his sharp edges.
Darling Dorris, little girl on tiptoes.

Darling Dorris, little girl, take his loyalty,
Scything through greenery to tiptoe on his longing.

A gift from the Dragoon to my little girl on tiptoes:
His loyalty for my darling Dorris.

His sharp edges longing, darling,
his loyalty, a gift of greenery.



A note on the process:
This piece was written from five phrases of five words  (25 words in total) picked at random from a brain storm on ‘red’, then created in five minutes.

What the Doctor Ordered

      It's taken the best part of an hour to lay out his clobber; tackle, bait, rods, flask, an old deck chair and the big sludge-coloured umbrella. He'd had to borrow Jack's wheelbarrow from the allotment. 

       Choosing a blind wriggling maggot from the bait box he threads hook to line, squinting at the clear fibre. His tongue, held vice-like between teeth and lips, body rigid.

       Muttering to himself, or the fish, or the flies, he casts out into the lake. "Fishing is relaxing?Good for your blood pressure? Ha! What would they know." 

He bends and fixes the rod to the stand and begins wrestling the deck chair into a useful configuration, cursing its stubbornness before sitting down heavily, peering at the float bobbing lazily on the water. 

       Time for tea. Cup in hand he takes a deep slow breath, and feels the tensions begin to melt away.

The Extraordinary Story Of Anna Crumble-Squeeze

     If you have ever sat waiting for a face mask to dry and felt the fresh newness of your skin begin to pucker under the pressure of the evaporating moisture then you will know exactly what Anna Crumble-Squeeze felt like in her first conscious moment.  If she had not been so wide at her base I am quite sure she would have fainted to the floor in a daze from all the toxic fumes souped together in the air: paint, varnish, lacquer, but fortunately she was a stout little soul....or a little stout soul, depending on your perspective.
      It was pinpricks of light that she first became aware of, followed by a blur of images slowly coming into focus,like when you look into a steam fogged bathroom mirror and it starts to come clear. And the images were all versions of the same face, peering down at her, smiling and cooing admiringly at her miniature perfection.  They were not identical, some had a slight crook to the nose, others a tighter mouth, but the overall impression was one of repeated images.
      "Oh! She has my nose" Matryoshka Nana said.
      "Yes, poor thing! But she has my delicate cheeks"
       "... and my rosebud mouth, Nana Lila"
       “Yes darling, and won't you look at her curls, aren't they precious, Ma'Rosa?
        Helena stroked her hand and Katia contented herself with admiring the brown and yellow painted shawl with pink rose buds that was the mark of her family. Ella hugged herself, she finally knew what it was to have the emptiness in her belly filled. Anna Crumble Squeeze looked about her smiling at these six ladies who seemed filled with love and curiosity about her and felt rather shy.
       "Hello, my name is Anna, Anna Crumble Squeeze"
       "Of course you are, my darling" said Ella, " and I am your Mother, Ella.  I have waited a long time to see you with my own eyes. This is a most wonderful day. Let me introduce the others. First the elder Mothers, Matryoshka Nana Pavlova, NanaLila Pavlova and MamaRosa Pavlova They are the first three generations of the family and have seen more in their time than most. Matryoshka Nana survived alone a whole Winter in the Summer Palace. With no fires in the hearth to warm the space it became so cold that Jack Frost let himself in and spent the day drawing patterns on the inside of the windows." Ella bent close to whisper in Anna's ear, "Don't stare but you can see the cracks beginning to show in her paint where she got bitten by the freeze." Then standing tall and speaking to the whole group again, "She survived a great trial but was reunited with us the following Summer and has protected her girls ever since through heat, cold, dust and disaster."
At this the sisters all joined hands and bowed their heads in a whispered prayer, chanting
"Heat, cold, dust and disaster" before Ella carried on as if nothing significant had just happened, "...and we love her all the more for it.  Helena is Mama Rosa's daughter and my Grandmama and last is my own Mama, Katia Crumble-Squeeze. She is the first Mama of the Crumble Squeeze dynasty named in honour of the Patissiere who rescued us after 'the Disaster'.  It was he and his daughter Karin who brought me to the light. Karin showed her father the crack reaching all around Mama Katia's Middle and, wise man that he was, the Patissiere told Karin there was hidden treasure within. By gently warming and releasing the damp-swollen band at Mama Katia's Middle I was brought into the world. And now, thanks to the Artisan I too have become a Mama. No longer will I  feel the emptiness of shadows at my core for you will nestle forever in my heart."
Anna Crumble Squeeze blinked slowly taking in the kind faces before her and immediately understood that she was part of a whole, one segment of an orange. She was not whole without these Mama's just as they were incomplete without her.

The Watermill Wakes

     The heavy door grates in its housing, the squeal-scrape issuing into the greening light of the woodland clearing. A deer stamps his warning to the dawn: the monster awakes.  The water, a mob of eager gurgles and  splashes rush the constricting channel on the shoulders of a careless current, tumbling into the first wooden trough. They, settle, wait.
      Like an archaic Ferris wheel, the trough inches forward. Suicidal drops fling themselves into the void as the next troughs lines with the sluice offering up its embrace. The sluggish wheel gradually shakes off its torpor, wakens to toil and the slosh-clank-splash accelerates to a thunderous mesh of sound,  drowning dawn's more delicate orchestra.
     Inside, gears grind their teeth with insatiable appetite and a burly Miller scurries to the loft to placate the giant's grumbling guts with grain.

Mountain King

On Chinese New Year,in the darkling of an absent moon, Greyback absent mindedly practiced his sleight of hand with an orchid and a walnut. The rank of Mountain King had been bestowed in an instant. Silverback trapped by poachers had sent the troup fleeing from their shouts and their scent.  While Silverback roared his indignation the females had followed Greyback up through the thickening vegetation into the mountain’s steep misted banks trusting him in that instant to lead them to safety and a new beginning. He considered his situation. It was the year of the golden Monkey.  Was this auspicious? He was to be the Monkey King.  He had spent his life following the rules: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, but these were considerations for those of lesser rank, without them he would be rudderless. Still he would be wise not to turn his back against such wise words if they could be applied with wisdom. “With rank came responsibility”. How often had he heard Silverback say this to him as he had flexed his adolescent muscles? He had never truly understood until now and he was saddened, knowing that he could never be one of the group in quite the same way.  From this day forward he would be with the group but separated from the host.  Still, rank had its perks.

He watched the harem beneath him in the grassy clearing, a mix of malleable younger females and more experienced dames. The shock of the days events sat heavily on them and they were watchful, alert, consoling each other with caring and closeness. There was a tension as they waited to see how the new reign would begin. Chi his favourite female was suckling the last of Silverback’s line while grooming her older infant. He grabbed a branch and chewed thoughtfully on its leaves. His eyes clouded as he remembered the loss of his own sibling to Silverback’s virility many moons before, the tiny limp body, back broken, after Silverback had flung it down across the roots of a tree in proof of his dominance. Had his mother not been so brave, he too might have lost his life that day, but she had soothed Silverback and given herself to him as she grieved the loss of her youngest babe. Greyback understood now these were the formalities of leadership, a way to secure the succession of your line, but times were changing. Their numbers were low and a bloodline other than his own would strengthen the group in the long run he ruminated.  He would take Chi for his own and discipline the infant; teach him all that he knew. The time had come to work together. 

Dropping the stick from his hand he reached for a leana and swung down on the group from his elevated perch instantly setting off a monkey madrigal of warning calls, mothers calling for their infants, older siblings seeking security in each other’s arms. For a moment the clearing was a carnival of high anxiety and then as he stood high on his back legs and beat on his chest the troop showed their submission.  He dropped back to his knuckles and swaggered through the clearing watching as each, juvenile male, each damme in turn dropped their heads and turned their eyes away at his approach.  Greyback paraded slowly through the troup until he reached Chi then lifted her infant onto his back and walked a little way from the group. Tension vibrated in the air and the birds killed their song but Greyback had all the assurance he needed. There was no further lesson required today. He knuckled his way to the nest he had seen Chi busy with earlier and took it for his own lifting the infant from his back into the nest.  The message was clear and Chi sidled up and began to groom his shoulders. The tension evaporated, a mere spectre in the mist.

Tomorrow he would lead the group over the ridge into the thicker trees and mark out a new territory, far away from the threat of man. If the luck of the year of the monkey was with them it would be the start of a golden age.  The stars had aligned their auspicious lights and the Milky Way glowed like a crown over the land he had inherited, a land where he would father a new generation of Mountain Kings.

Breaking Season

The sun rises across brittle baked crazy paving trails of salt and the night’s shadow-imprints fly away in the harsh light of day. The lioness lies dazed in the burgeoning heat, exhausted from the effort of her long journey. She stares, mesmerised by the hypnotic flicker of heat haze on the horizon horizon, watching shadows of her past self. This had been a wide river bed many years before, she was sure of it. She had frolicked here on the beach as a cub, chasing the egrets into flight, lapping delicately at the water in line with her cousins. Her life had been carelessly carefree; responsibilities were the concern of others. She had not understood then the fierce protection that had surrounded her, the sacrifices a pride made for their members. She had taken it for granted. Things were different now.  

The cub kicks at her distended belly making her ribs twitch.  She is responsible for more than her own life now, she must find a way to survive, for both of them, even if it takes her last breath.  She must find water.  Stretching carefully, she tests her stiff muscles and  then stands on uncertain limbs. She must find shade before long, the heat is merciless. Her sponge-wrung tongue rasps against the roof of her mouth . Water; water must come first.

She pads slowly a few steps to the North, muzzle raised, tasting the air, then turns South-West.  She sucks hungrily at the air’s perspiration only to find it dry, salty, and she lays down again ribs heaving, feeling each inhale burn deep in her throat. 

A breath of wind stirs her coat, brushing her hair the wrong way and as she looks East to it’s source she sees a distant mountain; a mountain on the move, hunting her down.  She has no heart to run but watches transfixed as it marches inexorably closer.  The mountain morphs as it moves, rolling and reforming. 

Clouds. Her mind whispers the hope of it and suddenly she knows it to be true; the rains are coming. The accumulated mountain of air gallops forward, billows rolling over each other like breaking waves, white horses on grey, tripping and tumbling, one over the other in their eagerness to reach the plain.  

The shadow reaches her first, enveloping her in its cool relief, but as the clouds stand over her, a predator over its prey, fat drops begin to fall and the parched earth finally clears its throat.

NYC Crime Caper - Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead

“This is our chance lads, don't you see? If we put on this play its a win win: we get time off porridge and more importantly we get even with Mr High-and-Mighty, the Mayor himself.  There’s not a one of us who hasn't had it worse for him sticking his nose in. I’ve  dreamed of giving him his comeuppance, shoving that greasy pole where the sun don’t shine, and now we’ve got the chance. And if we play our cards right we may see the back of this place for good.”

“I don’t know Harry, he was the one who identified me.  He’ll recognise me won't he?”

“Nah, you’re not so pretty anymore, Trent, not with your broken nose. Christ, he worked with me on the trading floor for three years and I doubt he’d know me. I had hair then. No, you’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s so up himself he won’t even consider he could have anything in common with the likes of us. Vinny, Carlos, you in?”

“After that farcical porn charge, you bet. The Bastard’s had it coming for years. Just surprised no one’s beaten us to it. But I’m not much for acting,mate.

“Jeez, Vinny, we’re not actually going to put on a production!  It just needs to look like we are. I was thinking about it and I reckon I’ve cracked it.  ‘Wizard of Oz’, that’s our game.  The witch gets flattened under ‘Dorothy’s’ house, right at the start, remember? If we can convince the Wanker-Banker to take the part of the ‘Wicked Witch’ we can rig a prop house to fall on him, put a couple of concrete breeze-blocks in their for good measure,” he cackled warming to the idea. “Can’t you just see it? Such a tragedy! And then we’re rid of the bastard for good.” It had to be said the plan had merit. The lads stood around, smiling at their toes, imagining the satisfaction of pulling this off. It would make doing the time a whole lot sweeter.

“But it gets better,” continued Harry, ”Carlos, you said your cousin was a long distant trucker? I reckon if we use my old motorhome as a dressing room, after we’ve flattened Benson we can get away, leave the country. We could drive it onto the back of his truck and hightail it to Spain. We’d be living the highlife come summer. You can’t beat life on the Costa-del-villainy. Sun, sand and a señorita in your lap, eh boys? Bob, what do you say?”

“You know me Harry, anything to get me out of here.”

“Good, then it’s settled. I’ll get an appointment with the Chief and get him on board. I wasn’t born with the gift of the gab for nothing.”

The meeting with the chief, an enthusiastic fellow named Officer Crawford, all went according to plan and a week later he personally escorted them to the Mayor’s office, going in ahead of them to lay the ground work. 

 The Mayor peered dubiously through the glass door of his office into the waiting area, eyeing the straggle of men gathered there.

“I know I said I was looking for volunteers from the community on this project, but I meant the tax paying element Officer. Are you sure they’ll tow the line?”

“They’re keen as mustard Sir, spurred the initiative themselves. They’re all hard workers and have impeccable behaviour records.”  he replied enthusiastically. Mr Benson arched his eyebrow.

“Ah, so you’re saying they’re trustworthy villains?”

“The finest we have Sir.” 

Mr Benson turned to look at Officer Crawford to see if he was in jest. Did he not realise this was the scum of Heathford Vale he was talking about, not the Heathford School’s scholarship students? But as Mayor and a member of the Tattersal Players he had promised Mrs Tilbury that he would personally find the funding and ensure the Theatre was fully operational in time for their production of ‘Oliver’, or his name was not Mr Bumble.

“But it isn’t” she had said confused, “your name’s Mr Benson, Mr Benson”

“Yes, Mrs Tilbury, but I shall play ‘Mr Bumble’ in the production, do you see?” he’d explained, “‘Or I’ll eat my hat!’” 

“Oh, Mr Benson, you tease!” Mrs Tilbury had smiled weakly, then looked about for a hat.

Mr Benson walked round to the far side of his desk and sat in front of the enormous press photograph of himself in full Mayoral attire, shaking hands with the Prime Minister. He adopted what he felt was an authoritative pose and glanced quickly about the room. The heavy gold chains of office along with the intricately brocaded red coat glinted smugly from a dress makers mannequin. He felt reassured by their presence and the satisfaction of superiority settled on him like a protective aura.

“Bring them in then Crawford.” Officer Crawford nodded curtly and opened the door.

“In you come lads.”Harry winked at the boys,

“We’re on. Let me do the talking.” Then they trooped in to the Mayoral Office.

“Gentlemen,” Mr Benson began generously once they were assembled, ”Officer Crawford tells me that you are willing to assist us in raising money for the theatre by staging your own production. Is this correct?”

“Yes Mr Mayor. We’ve been fortunate enough to benefit from some drama workshops run by the prison services and we welcome the opportunity to show the public what we can do.” simpered Harry

“And you are?”

“My name is Harry, Harry Matters.” He stepped forward wondering if Benson would remember him and offered his hand to shake but it was left hanging in the air between them. Harry continued unfazed, relieved. “This here is Bob…”

“Sir.”

“…Vinny,”

“Mr Mayor.”

“…Carlos and Trent.” Mr Benson looked at them in turn. He felt a slight frisson of excitement at being in the same room as so many villains. It reminded him of his time as a trader on the stock floor. Here he was, a fat cat, master of all he surveyed, living dangerously once more.

“Right gentleman, you better tell me what you have in mind.”

 “We’ve been working on ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in group, so we know most of the script and songs already. We thought that would be the best bet.”

“But you are all men. Whose going to play ‘Dorothy’?”

“Oh, Come on now Mr Mayor, this is acting. You know better than anyone that a good actor can take on any roll and make it their own. Carlos does an amazing ‘Dorothy’.”

“And what about Glinda the good, who’s going to play her?  Trent?” Mr Benson looked derisively at Trent’s hulking figure covered in Maori tattoos, his shadow filling the room.

“No!”laughed Harry, “Trent is the ‘Cowardly Lion’ and well suited to it too. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless he’s told to that is. Unfortunately, it turns out that’s no defence in court. Well, societies loss is our gain, hey Trent! No, I play ‘Glinda’. This here is our ‘Tin Man’,” he said patting Bob on the shoulder, “and Carlos there is ‘Scarecrow’.” he indicated. “What do you think lads, shall we show him what we’re made of? ‘Follow the Yellow brick road’ on three.” They linked arms. “One, two…” Mr Benson raised his hand.

 “That wont be necessary, thank you.” He paused for effect and then as graciously as he could manage said, “Ok, you can do your play. I have a provisional date of the fifteenth June. I presume your diaries are free?” He smirked at his own joke before recomposing himself as the figure of authority in the proceedings. “You are being offered an opportunity here Gentlemen, to make amends to your community. It is not a jolly holiday. If you let me down I will see to it personally, that your hopes for parole become a fond memory. Understood?”

“Of course Mr Mayor. 

“Do you have any questions?”

“Well, if we may be so bold, we were hoping you would consent to be the voice of the wizard?  You are a much loved member of the community and a thespian yourself I believe?.  It would be an honour to say we had performed with you.” A rather unbecoming pink rash started to seep up from the neck of Mr Benson’s shirt. Flattery was nectar to him and he was a fool for it. “Also, we thought if we could put you as top billing, say ‘The Wizard of Oz by Mr Mayor and company’ and not mention our names, it might sell more tickets?”

“That’s a good point. Of course the rest of the players will want to be the supporting chorus.” 

“That would be marvellous” Harry said, hamming it up,”although they may not want to share dressing room space with convicted felons. May I suggest a solution? My cousin Jimmy has a motorhome Sir. If he parked it at the back of the theatre, we could use that, leaving the larger space for the chorus and of course the star dressing room for you.”

Mr Benson’s vanity caught hold. He imagined his name in lights and the rapturous applause of a fine production. He spoke again, almost more to himself. “Its a shame not to have my moment in the spot light.” But Harry was ready to feed his self importance.

“Well it would be fantastic if you would come and greet people front of house. And how grand it would be if you were there in your official capacity as Mayor, in all your finery. Can you just imagine the headlines,’Rehabilitating the Nation’; the papers would have a field day. And if you wanted a role on stage maybe you could play the ‘Wicked Witch of the East’? Thats right at the beginning. And then you'll be finished.” Carlos tittered at this until Trent quickly silenced him, squashing his foot into the floor. “I mean you can enjoy the rest of the play from the auditorium.”

“I’d like that very much.” 

“Sadly due to our particular circumstances we will only be able to take leave for one rehearsal at the theatre and a single performance, Mr Mayor.  But don’t worry, we will ensure that it all runs just the way we plan it.”

“That’s settled then. I will tell the other players about the chorus and see you at the dress rehearsal. Good day.” The lad’s began to file out. “Officer Crawford, please give these men any assistance they may need. You have my authority.”

“Thank you Sir.”he said, and closed the door.

Mr Benson sat back in his chair trying to understand why the prisoners seemed to look so pleased with themselves. He was new to philanthropic acts of kindness, but allowed himself to believe it was because of his generosity. He sat there for some time, basking in the warm self righteous feelings of giving those poor buggers a chance to improve their lot, and it felt good.

For the next few weeks the lads were given special dispensation to listen to the score of The Wizard of Oz, extra time in the woodwork club for prop making and time in the hobby room to create their costumes. Every detail had to look authentic. It turned out Officer Crawford was a bit of a closet Am-Dram fan and the only fly in the ointment was that he often popped in to see how they were getting on or to join in with a chorus.

‘He’s pretty good Harry,” Vinny said one day, “we should give him a part.” 

“No Vinny,back stage has to be our turf. If we’re going to pull this off, Officer Crawford and his colleagues need to be in the auditorium. Gives us a clear run to  rifle through the Chorus’ abandoned stuff while they’re prancing about on stage.  A bit of spending money would come in handy in Spain and we can always pawn the iPhones and laptops and stuff once we’re there. We could all do with a new wardrobe too, I don’t fancy travelling in my prison gear.”

Carlos got word to his cousin Andre, who arranged an empty low-loader for June fifteenth.  

“He’s going to bring a motorhome with Spanish plates and leave it near Plymouth. He’ll put Bilbao ferry tickets and all the documents under the sun visor, then meet us at South Mimms services. We can dump your motorhome there Harry, blow off the Fuzz, and he’ll take us to the other van waiting at Plymouth. I’m just a Spaniard returning home for a visit, easy.”

“How we coming with ‘Dorothy’s House’ Trent?”

 “ Woodwork shop is ready to put it together without a floor. We’ll have to make the adjustments once we are at the theatre. A mate of mine is working round the corner and says he can get an extra palette of breeze-blocks no questions asked, all we have to do is barrow them over once the floor’s in, and haul them up into the rafters on one of the stage pulleys before they’re seen.  We can tell them it’s a one time gig and we daren’t drop it before the big night in case it breaks, do the dress rehearsal with just the trap door. Benson won’t want to risk the house being smashed for a rehearsal.”

They kept the Mayor busy during the rehearsal and everything ran like clockwork. While the whole cast were involved on stage doing a run through of ‘Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead’ and the Munchkin chorus the lads secured the floor in the house and moved the breeze-blocks into place, then hauled the whole lot up into the  rafters. They didn’t need to check the trap door in the end as Benson was happy not to have a run through. As lock up was called that night, the lads lay in their cells dreaming of sweet revenge and impending freedom. 

The performance went exactly as planned, the house fell on cue and the stage was misted with dry ice to cover the concrete dust while the chorus sang ‘Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead’. While Carlos had been playing a stunned, post-twister Dorothy, Harry, Bob, Vinny and Trent had cleared the dressing room of clothes and valuables. After rapturous applause the audience sat waiting for the next scene which never came. Mrs Tilbury and the rest of the chorus made such a commotion about the loss of their belongings, that it was hours before anybody thought to check under ‘Dorothy’s House’ by which time Mr Benson had bled quietly to death.

In a quiet Spanish mountain village, a cafe called the ‘Dulce  Venganza’ serves drinks until all hours. The owner, Carlos, wears a red brocaded coat and Harry,the barman, has a heavy gold Mayoral chain about his neck. Everyone knows better than to ask any questions, besides, the heavily tattooed doorman is enormous.

Tea time

 The devil makes work for idle hands. Beelzebub is blacked with elbow grease, the air puckered with toil.  Workbenches stand scrubbed raw, dredged with the dust of breads proving in the heat. An army of minions bustle beyond the kitchen, worker bees serving the hive, the metronome of life beating its allegro.
          The copper kettle gargles a rising scale as water gushes from protesting pipes. Dew drops hiss from its base as it settles on the range. Moments pass before a curlicue of steam poses unanswerable questions, puffing and billowing them into a confusion of  clouds. A harried kitchen maid appears, cloth in hand, and heaves the boiling kettle from the heat.
        Vultures begin to circle, drawing close to the domestic heart, tasting impending gossip on the air. Cook squints at the maid with scrutiny, ready with one lasts scratch of severity,
        "And don't forget to warm the pot."

Magic Moments

      Time ticks along in ones but it will stand still for no man, or woman, or baby. It follows a clear prescribed path just as the sun in the heavens.
     “Come here to me my love and let me wrap you up warm. Bring me your buttoned shoe. Where is your other sock?”
     “One, two, buckle my shoe” you sing, stretching pudgy arms up to my neck with blithe joy.  I smile at your song. Such a carefree babe, I think you will sing your journey from source to sea what ever rocks and waterfalls lie in your path. You drop a succulent kiss to my cheek leaving a cold spot where your nose touches my skin. Frowning with grave intensity you pull away.
      “Where Mummy’s earring?” I touch the lobe and find it wanting of decoration but have no time to think where or how I could have lost the trinket so remove the other and place it on the settle.  How long will it stay there I wonder, six months, two years? Nothing gets done anymore. Landscapes are made of necessity. I was still waiting for the day I would morph into the Yummy Mummy I expected to be, juggling all the requirements of motherhood and home and wife with ease. One of these days it will be me I had believed, but not today.  Mine was always the bag with nappies spilling out, the toddler with only one sock, one shoe, invariably on opposite feet. Yes my vegetable purees were home made but it was more often than not smeared across my shirt front or flicked in my hair. Order had turned to chaos, along with the odd sock, the hairbrush and now the single earring, which would some day turn up in an Aladin’s cave of wonders.
      Routine was important, all the books said so. Time for playgroup; the simple happy flock.  I slip on your froggy wellies and toggle your coat ruffling your hair before jamming a rainbow fleece hat on top of your curls.Wrapping a woollen scarf around my own neck against the cold we braved the frost together,crunching on dried mud and leaves hand in hand. Water in the puddles had frozen into ice, skeletal leaves adrift, frozen in time.
      “Jump!” you cry stamping your wellies and I whisk you through the clouds from our breath. “Again, again!” The journey is part of the adventure.
     Finally we reach the church hall and unbuckle your layers, revealing the toddler within. You run ahead of me shouting, jubilous. All the new words you have learned come tumbling forth in a jumble of exuberance and you crash straight into your friend who bounces backwards and lands on his bottom
     “Ouch?” you say in expectation of his response. But he had learned some new words of his own.
     “Ouch?” he marvelled. “Simple girl!”