Here, one month on ...

Friday 8 April 2005 Y Maerdy I crush, with apple and flower chopping board, garlic teardrop, in irregular use, half tomato, three mushrooms, a ten cm leek cut up, again and again into a melange of colour, shape, texture, and juice by the razor knife, its cutting edge a vicious terrain. Here, the Hereford Road, bare by the Sugarloaf the cold April winds encode, and rain. I boil the kettle enough for half a pot, hot rich tea; just one teabag. Yes, I know a purist would bristle. I take a swig of cider? No, too cold. Think of economy; it doesn’t mix with evening primrose and milk thistle. Here, the meandering Usk by the Blorenge, the cold April winds busk, and whistle. I sizzle the garlic, mushroom in butter sauce, leek, tomatoes hissing. An ancient, oil-encrusted thing for frying, old wooden spoon, the crew; pepper grinder reports for duty, showering the target, some missing; to complete the potpourri, Greek extra virgin, a liberal throw, or two. Here, the Gavenny stream by Ysgyryd Fach, the cold April winds ream, and hew. I use Brace’s brown bread to pick up a bit, swab the plate, a couple of mugs of the tea of course adding much extra heat. Their bakery is in Crumlin, the name, don’t you think, appropriate? Wash, drain, wipe, put away the things, neat. Here, the railway line by Ysgyryd Fawr, the cold April winds pine, and beat. Into the lounge, listen to my stomach squirm and joke, they are engaging in what they think is minor crime, I wait, imagining them as they run, jump, and poke. At least they’re warm, enjoying a good time. A 12 30 pm lunch, watching the quiet, blustery day take its time; what a difference one month can make.