tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24723602496733853202024-02-21T11:34:09.709+00:00The random ramblings of a magpie mindThe random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-41197939502441830212020-05-25T13:16:00.002+01:002020-05-25T13:16:43.299+01:00Morning meditation Five o’clock wakenings to birdsong<br />
and the slow scratch of lizards behind glass.<br />
Sunlight filters through slatted blinds<br />
calling cats from sleep;<br />
Whilst the first coffee of the day<br />
Steams gently as it pours.The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-22408774334951750462020-05-09T21:38:00.002+01:002020-05-11T16:16:13.831+01:00Tell me a lie about the seaThe sea whispers quietly, enticingly<br />
Slipping over sands to caress my toes<br />
I will be gentle, it sighs<br />
Winding round my legs like a cat<br />
Come; explore my hidden depths<br />
Discover the secrets I hide<br />
It cries<br />
As its current pulls me <br />
further from the shore<br />
I will rock you in my arms<br />
And keep you safe<br />
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In the undertow<br />
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-58608881898539961272020-03-26T18:37:00.002+00:002020-03-26T18:37:21.102+00:00seeking a new normal<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> Last week normality ceased as the broadcast came</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> and</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> doors shut on faces we greeted every morning. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Now we move through days as if underwater;</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">along quiet corridors,</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> where small shoals of children ebb and flow;</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">weaving their way from space to space on parallel paths; pulled by invisible currents away from the solid anchorage of familiarity.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> Hours </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">seem longer and direction rudderless,</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"> as we tread water and drift with the tide </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">to a place in time where a new normal can be found.</span>The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-25272253516614136032019-04-18T09:34:00.001+01:002019-04-18T09:34:25.899+01:00Beach combing<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This small shell</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Washed by waves </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">That ebb and roll in timed rotation</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Wearing away ridges</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Smoothing sharp angles</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This delicate fan</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Half buried under grainy sand</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Fits tight in my palm</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Leaving the echo of salt on skin</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">And sunbaked afternoons</span></div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-41034847804214976542019-03-17T13:18:00.001+00:002019-03-17T13:18:33.362+00:00Barber shop chorus<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">The barbers has a rhythm all its own</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Muted news, soft soul tunes </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> clipper hum </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">and faint scratch of razor on strop</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This emporium of masculine grooming</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">tolerates my presence as I sit </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">enfolded in soft leather sofa</span></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">breathing in sandalwood and eucalyptus</span></div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-16139877929931483522018-11-24T13:07:00.000+00:002018-11-25T14:37:55.808+00:00Slipping on the sixth step<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">There is a cat on the stairs, who stands and stares </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">as I slip on the sixth step; </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">my joints as stiff as his smile. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I slip, he topples, dents and bruises bloom;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> whilst in the downstairs room the TV mutters,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">masking my tumble . </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">These darkening days of Winter,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> that pleat skies with heavy cloud, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">and breathe river mists over garden walls; </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">slow all motion.</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">The numbing c</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">old and damp transforms me </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">into a stumbling creature,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> graceless and disjointed;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">swathed in wools and cashmeres </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">to ward off the slowly creeping stiffness </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">that seeps deep into bone </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17.41pt;">and lingers like rust on a gently rotting hull.</span></div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-19756244461188833352018-11-17T06:05:00.000+00:002018-11-17T06:05:02.484+00:00The witching hour<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This is the witching hour; the time before dawn where a faint glow low on the horizon filters through dark skies, shepherding in a new day. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">A time of small songs, when crickets sing oblivious as water dragons wake from sleep, warmed by lamps, eager to eat</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This is the time of cats, uncurled from slumber; who pad on soft paws to scratch at doors, demanding to be let free to roam once more along high walls and down amongst the toppled stones of quiet graveyards.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">This is my time; with steaming mug in hand and glasses perilously perched on nose; wrapped in words that whirl from thought to page whilst the house breathes quietly on.</span></div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-72200504762576748562018-01-23T22:31:00.001+00:002018-01-23T22:31:15.661+00:00rainy days and Sundays <div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Grey day.Steady rain slicks patio paving, and pools in empty planting pots. Cats clamour to go out, then stand beneath scant shelter, fur ruffled by damp droplets, before scrabbling to be let back inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Days like these require different rhythms ; long slow breaths and the quiet rustle of turning pages. Time slows to the spatter of rain on window panes and the bubble of soup simmering on the stove......... and we dream the hours away,waiting for a gap between clouds, and a glimpse of the pale winter sun.</span></div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-60802298791849132832017-08-18T23:24:00.001+01:002017-08-19T10:03:55.855+01:00JammingMarket stall apricots, warmed in August sunshine; blushing pink with ripened promise as they tumble from scales into a waiting paper bag. This is the start of a ritual long remembered from childhood summers, when fruit would fall from bag to table; to be transformed over an afternoon into jewelled jars of apricot jam.<br />
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Juice slowly drips from blade to bowl, as each fruit is split ready to slow cook in lidded pot. Scales groan under a weight of sugar, and lemons are squeezed of their juices. This is the science; a fine balance to create the alchemy of sweet amber delight.</div>
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Jam making is an art; I merely an apprentice following my mother's calm directions as I assemble ingredients in the pan; feeling sugar, gritty under a stirring spoon, as heat begins to dissolve each granule, whilst apricots slowly slide and bubble.</div>
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Now the wait, as thermometer line creeps ever upward, and occasional slow stir keeps thickening juices from sticking. Here is the skill; an ever watchful eye, waiting for that magical moment when fruit, juice and sugar combine into the perfect consistency, to hang from spoon edge; or wrinkle on chilled saucer. This is the revelation, the secret passed from mother to daughter, to finally capture the familiar taste of childhood in a simple glass jar.</div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-32724731219700470302017-05-14T22:08:00.000+01:002018-11-30T21:20:04.818+00:00Deja vue<br />
The slow dance begins once more;<br />
this time my mother's pas de deux......<br />
and we,<br />
weary from past duets,<br />
recall each stumbling step of this strange ballet<br />
crafted from DNA's complex choreography.<br />
From the wings, the poise and elegance<br />
with which she glides across the floor;<br />
Seems effortless<br />
So we remain in the shadows<br />
silently awaiting our cue.........<br />
a stalwart corps de ballet.The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-47068130371829652772016-11-14T21:49:00.000+00:002020-05-11T15:08:12.585+01:00Of mice and Mum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My mother has always drawn mice; not the anatomically correct, scrabble footed, twitch eared images from the pages of a nature book ; but stroke of a pencil, pointy nosed, whip tail squiggles on paper scraps and the back of envelopes..<br />
An enduring image from childhood, they peeped from the pages of home made books to remind us when to sit 'quiet as mice' on unyielding church pews during Sunday service.<br />
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My father would find uniquely mousey gifts to bring back home from across the seas; my childhood favourite being a gilded green bellied brooch with fiery red eyes and an articulated tail, that we would beg to have pinned on our warm woolly jumpers. My mother would willingly oblige..... until the day it was taken to the jewellers where she discovered it was, in reality, far more precious than we had all believed it to be; not just paste and glass after all! After that, it was assigned to the jewellery box to be worn only on high days and holidays.<br />
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Over the years mice of every shape, design and texture arrived in the guise of birthday , Christmas and Valentine gifts; slowly jumbling the shelves of the corner cabinet we named 'the glory hole'. They were an eclectic collection; treasured by stubby fingered wide eyed grandsons who were granted leave to touch and explore just as long as each mouse was returned to its allotted place.<br />
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This weekend marked the first anniversary of my father's death. A bitter sweet time to gather as a family and celebrate his life. I would have taken flowers to arrange in vases and brighten each room; but then I saw these pink nosed, beady eyed felted marvels; dressed in the colours of our childhood, just begging to be set free from the dusty confines of a forgotten bargain bin. They seemed such a fitting gift somehow, and I have the strangest of feelings that my father would have thoroughly approved.<br />
<br />The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-57926702308051538032016-08-04T22:38:00.000+01:002020-05-11T15:26:21.853+01:00Rambling<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Walking under tall trees, where dappled light casts moving shadows on dusty paths, and small creatures rustle under feathered ferns.</span><br />
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Our footfalls break the stillness as we step from path to bridge, led by signs mapped out in twigs and fallen branches gathered by small hands. As we stroll the sun catches exposed trunks where fungus blooms with soft strange beauty all its own; whilst in the shade oozing mud awaits a careless slip from wooden logs, that serve as smoothed down stepping stones. </div>
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From woodland route the earthen path transforms itself to rutted gravel; cracked and scared by frequent rain. A scattering of wild flowers straggle their way along the verge and unseen birds sing warning chimes somewhere beyond the hawthorne hedge. And now we take the grassy track, mown flat across a grazing field; where doe eyed cows of every hue stare soulfully into middle distance, chewing on cud and dreaming their bovine dreams. </div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-46416494272656673342016-06-20T08:22:00.001+01:002016-07-05T17:56:29.472+01:00After the fall<br />
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These weeks after the fall find me anchorless; ghosting through days, slipping in and out of worlds between pages, as I search for comfort away from this dull ache of knitting bone. Sleep is fitful, and often I find myself gliding through a soft breathing house at dawn to submerge in deep, hot water swirled with scented bubbles; where I lie waiting for pain to ease, accompanied by a deep throated dove cooing in the morning.</div>
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To temper this aimless existence, I make new routines, setting small goals on this exhausting journey back to fitness. I forge deals with myself - scrubbing and cleaning in awkward wronghandness before curling on cushions, book in hand and cat on lap.This strangely rigid interruption in my normally fluid existence, is a way to fill the hours and keep torpor at bay.A way to ignore this dull ache that accompanies my every movement,until the sweet relief of a heated wheat bag and a few moments of calm.</div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-48346158083978702002016-06-01T19:28:00.002+01:002020-05-12T09:25:16.085+01:00Morning has broken<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">As of late, it is the sharp sound of an insistent blackbird that jars me from sleep; often to discover a small ginger cat curled under covers by my left knee.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">We rise together, slowly stretching in the half light of a pale sun filtered through dark cloud and slatted blinds; before he gracefully leaps onto the windowsill, where his tail twitches in time to the cacophony of magpies squabbling on nearby rooftop perch.</span><br />
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Today is mostly grey, the odd shaft of light breaking through; and has been given over to snails who languidly dance under the patio table; tentatively elongating tentacles beneath rain washed skies. One inches his way up the window pane and I fleetingly wonder if he studies me as keenly as I study him.<br />
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In the corner of the cloud washed sitting room,the first coffee of the day steams as I curl on cushions, pyjama clad, luxuriating in this little oasis of peace before the scramble of the day<br />
begins.<br />
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-43569939339408720022016-05-01T10:09:00.001+01:002016-05-01T10:09:44.807+01:00A small death<span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> We found her this morning, head gently resting on outstretched paws. Not on her cushion, but tucked away in a favourite hideaway beneath the table. </span><br />
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She looked in death, as she had in life; comfortable and content, curled in a question-mark, ready to dream the day away. Yet no soft purr vibrated through her chest and the tips of her whiskers remained untwitched. </div>
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Gently , we carried this now cooled body into the sun warmed garden, and laid her in rich brown earth beneath the apple tree. </div>
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She was loved.</div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-10867620382230257122016-04-25T19:00:00.000+01:002016-04-25T19:00:28.397+01:00Hitting the floor<br />
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A week ago I fell. Not one of those small, inconsequential trips easily disguised by a quick double step and wry smile; but a messy, flailing, uncoordinated affair, played out in public. One minute I was balancing carrots and tomatoes in overburdened hands, the next I was hurtling towards a room divider; frantically twisting to avoid full impact. I landed, as gravity decreed I must, hard; shoulder first upon unforgiving floor, as discarded vegetables rained down around me.<br />
In my head, I pictured jumping up with a loud " tah daaaaaaaaaaa" and comedic curtesy; but in truth I sat, dazed and clammy, watching blood slowly dripping onto lino.</div>
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The quiet chatter of concerned colleagues faded into white noise; my body bracing at the first wave of pulsating pain. Eyes closed, I focused through each assault... in two three; out two three....breath technique from maternal memory riding the surge and fall. And then, through half closed eyes, a flash of green uniform proffering the welcome suck and hiss of gas and air, that pushed pain into dark recesses as I finally rose to my feet.<br />
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So here I sit, my upper arm and left eye a palette of colour; greens and blues slowly seeping into deepest of purple. No plaster cast or tapestry of steristrips; just a simple collar and cuff to immobilise broken bone and a scar, newly formed, to dissect my eyebrow and lend a rakish air.</div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-74422192449054165362016-03-24T23:05:00.000+00:002020-05-11T15:30:15.675+01:00Out in the fieldOut in the field, crows perch on high branches still bare from winter's ravages; overseeing the to and fro of wild geese gliding down to graze the fresh grass.<br />
Here we stand, braced against chill breezes, wrapped in layers to ward off the creeping cold; focused on a small yellow circle.<br />
Bows in hand we begin the now familiar ritual - inhale, draw, focus, breathe, release; a rhythm born of muscle memory, forming the focus of a morning meditation.<br />
There is no need for words; the silence broken only by the slight vibration of a loosened bowstring, and solid thud of arrows meeting their mark.<br />
Looking down the line, we wait for the final release before a short stroll to the boss, where the tug and click as arrows are gathered and requivered is masked by a pair of rowdy magpies laughing from their fence post perches.<br />
This is the field, and this our moment of peace in a hectic world.<br />
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<br />The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-54194654726348752042016-02-13T20:32:00.003+00:002016-02-13T20:32:59.154+00:00dull, damp day<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
The house breathes quietly to the rhythm of soft paws on carpeted stairs, the slow click of needles and rustle of turned pages; as rain slowly trickles down the window panes. </div>
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Today I have draped rebellious joints in the softest of fabrics, as they rage against the cold damp air; causing slips, trips and loss of grace. I used to run, not fast; but sure footed on sprung treadmill to the rhythm of music set on shuffle. Now I stride, then slow apace as hips and knees rebel and seize like a faulty engine in a clapped out car. </div>
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The daffodils are blooming, yet still I hibernate , curled on comfy cushions; waiting for storms and gales to cease, and the sun to shine its thin pale light through slatted blinds once more. </div>
The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-39001875217614579062016-01-23T09:07:00.001+00:002020-05-11T15:35:16.040+01:00Creating calm<br />
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Yarn.....soft to the touch strings of glorious colour, that fade then deepen as they loop and turn around smooth metal needles. The click, twist, turn and slip create a rhythm flowing through once fumbling fingers, as stitches tumble from pointed ends. </span><br />
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Needles click and my mind empties of all but the mantra of a counted pattern , beating time to the pull of skeins through my hands measuring deftly intertwining loops, that weave together in ever growing intricate ways.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;">From hesitant beginnings, structure is formed; a rib, a seed, a measured fold; even the most delicate of cables snaking through a mundane stretch of stocking stitches ..... and suddenly I am taken aback at what these loops and twists can do, as elvish hats for bright eyed children slowly emerge from depleted skeins.... and my mind is calmed by meditative motion.</span><br />
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-78146408816193073042016-01-03T21:48:00.001+00:002016-01-03T21:48:21.456+00:00Grief<br />
Grief has a complex rhythm all its own. Staccato....beating triple time; then suddenly syncopated.<br />
It swells and ebbs as grey days seep slowly one into another, and nights stretch beyond endurance.<br />
With old photographs and fresh memories to anchor us, we move in time to this strange music; finding solace in remnants. A penknife, smooth and heavy; that sits in the curve of a palm, or the whisper of cashmere; a final warm caress.<br />
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<br />The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-7241413162646915362015-12-21T19:21:00.002+00:002015-12-21T19:21:20.595+00:00Crossing the bar<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
Even before that last breath and lingering silence, the sky mourned; sending biting winds and rain to dash against the pane; raging when we could not..... Yet it was the sun that finally called to you in the quiet of that empty room; leaving worn out bones as a final remnant of all you once were.</div>
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Later, within woven willow draped in the colours of the sea; we watched as you were borne aloft upon the shoulders of young men made boys by grief.</div>
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Then, sat amongst familiar faces weighed down by heavy hearts and shared memories; we found you once more , amidst the warm words of a final farewell. </div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-18180640314915201052015-11-13T20:24:00.002+00:002015-11-13T20:24:42.473+00:00Stop all the clocks.... <div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
By the lamp's soft glow </div>
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I sit and I knit;</div>
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a stitch for each laboured breath</div>
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you take, </div>
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as the click of the needles </div>
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and tick of the clock</div>
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measure time slipping away</div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Clock ticks, needles click; </span><br />
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a pump whirs and flashes</div>
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in synchronised rhythm.<div>
Dark hours pass,</div>
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to the low rasp of breath</div>
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of a life not yet extinguished<div>
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The clock stops,</div>
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needles lie still;</div>
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no longer clicking to the tick.</div>
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Breath fades </div>
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and all is silent</div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-13043530848980855262015-10-20T22:26:00.001+01:002020-05-12T10:36:15.712+01:00All change<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Fairy clocks count down the slow creep of days,'til Autumn's past and the dark bite of Winter takes a hold </span><br />
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Wild winds have stripped trees bare; laying waste to leaves that lie slowly crisping on the ground<br />
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In search of sheltered spaces, spiders swing from line to peg and creep inside; whilst snails slide up tendrils to nestle in curled leaves and dream </div>
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<span style="line-height: 16.5pt;">Slugs </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">slip-slide over patio slabs in their slow waltz to honour the dwindling sun; </span>leaving delicate trails that glitter in thin sunlight, leading to dark, damp places under patio pots.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 16.5pt;">In bark strewn beds, berries blush as </span>fungi grow then decay.....</div>
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and people pass, heads bent against rain, oblivious to their fading glory.</div>
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The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-15061805456446201662015-09-13T20:20:00.001+01:002016-09-14T21:03:19.123+01:00Autumn <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUiwSoeHp9z05eZLJWM5tGjE9a9bEcg2SfSOYB5nJGWk6rTP3RCWvBC37AJ6eafVAgNWDx9bzWJkkTTQuo6chSFIRtrcuBKxDyI00urfax_uo5Fzq8SW2j9hq3GH1x88OLJD0QX4gJb2T/s1600/IMG_3781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUiwSoeHp9z05eZLJWM5tGjE9a9bEcg2SfSOYB5nJGWk6rTP3RCWvBC37AJ6eafVAgNWDx9bzWJkkTTQuo6chSFIRtrcuBKxDyI00urfax_uo5Fzq8SW2j9hq3GH1x88OLJD0QX4gJb2T/s320/IMG_3781.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Now is the season of slow mists<br />
that hang in hollows;<br />
of silvered spiderwebs<br />
strung from branch to branch<br />
like tattered wedding veils;<br />
A low golden sun<br />
that flames the tips of leaves<br />
on roadside bushes;<br />
and lengthens shadows<br />
across naked fields<br />
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It is a time of foraging;<br />
of fingers, red stained<br />
as bursting berries hanging heavy<br />
on woodland brambles,<br />
tumble through painted hands into plastic pots;<br />
to scent the kitchen with childhood memories,<br />
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<br />The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2472360249673385320.post-25519852900654268752015-07-27T18:00:00.002+01:002020-05-11T15:59:21.015+01:00Gulls<div style="text-align: center;">
On bended wing they swoop low, skimming waves; </div>
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their mournful cries a perfect foil for the jingle jangle of pier head rides. </div>
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They are the post sitters, people watchers...</div>
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Still as statue fortune tellers who wait, with baited breath for picnics to appear </div>
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Then, with one mad dash and scramble they strike...</div>
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Swooping on unsuspecting chip eaters, sandwich snackers, beach sitters</div>
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to snatch at tasty morsels from reluctant givers</div>
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laughing uproariously at their criminal exploits</div>
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before flocking out past foaming breakers </div>
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to sanctuary </div>
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in the pitch and swell of deep water waves</div>
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<br />The random ramblings of a magpie mindhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07967963670176261784noreply@blogger.com0