A River of Stones 2012

This was the first time I'd joined Fiona and Kaspa in one of their River of Stones Challenges. The task was to notice one thing in detail each day of January and describe it in words, thus turning it into a small stone.

I'm please to say that I completed the challenge and I've poured my river of stones onto this page. Please use a suitable craft to navigate. The waters are fairly calm with just the occasional rapid to negotiate.


                                                   

1.1.12 Bamboo canes, sturdy and black against delicate lime leaves, move to the rhythm of the wind like arms at a rock concert.

2.2.12 The smear across the microwave door, a rainbow drained of colour.

3.1.12 A hazy potato print against a marine blue sky. The moon has insomnia again.

4.1.12 With eyes closed the wind in the trees is waves on a shingle beach. 

5.1.12 A sparrow wipes his beak on the branch once, twice, fluffs out his sodden wings, nibbles a feather and he's away 

6.1.12 Metal wings slash white lines across a blue sky, tally marks to record yet more pollution.

7.1.12 A furry grey paw, chenille-soft, stretches across my lap. I stroke it. Mabel purrs and, if I could, I would purr too. 

8.1.12 Waving arms together, clapping hands, hiding under the table and... boo! The joys of skyping with my 21 month old grandson.   

9.1.12  With Hockney's words in my head I looked at small stones. They are grey, white, yellow, blue, black, orange and green. They are shiny, rough, flat, oval and round and everything in-between.

10.1.12 Rich red base with black lines forming diamonds and circles, each one filled with blue, beige and red. This is the Turkish rug I never see beneath my feet.

11.1.12 A rotund pigeon approaches our tree, thrusts legs forward, leans back on an air current, flaps wings wildly… and he’s landed.

12.1.12 I slice the cucumber so thinly the light shines through. My knife slips. I should hide the half slices but where? In my mouth!

13.1.12 The car wash guys have raw red hands and yet they chat and laugh as they wring out leathers, spray on soap, hose down suds.

14.1.12 A thousand tiny fireflies were skating all night on our frosted car roof to the tune of The Bolero.

15.1.12 A line of steam escapes from beneath the saucepan lid and gathers like dewdrops on the cold kitchen window.

16.1.12 Yellow tulips dip over the rim of my vase like ballerinas bowing for applause.

17.1.12 Pasta bows, soft and shiny, covered with sizzling cheese and spinach for Popeye-style strength. Supper for one. My choice.

18.1.12 1 to 9, 1 to 9, 1 to 9. Looking for patterns. Always different. My evening Soduko never fails to fascinate.

19.1.12 Shuffle and deal. Sort the cards. *sigh* No bid… again! #Bridge 

20.1.12 Two spikey haired cats miaow at me as if I can stop the rain. Sorry girls.

21.1.12  Chocolate ice cream with real chocolate chunks, smooth and crunchy, cold and creamy. The taste lingers :-) 

22.1.12  A failed small stone. I can’t find words to describe the aching tiredness in my body after an exhausting weekend with my post-operative daughter.

23.1.12  The dunnock knocks leaves from the gutter seeking out insects that had mistakenly preserved their juicy bodies for his breakfast.

24.1.12 They hit the puddles sending circles ever outwards, moving too fast for me to see, but I can hear them on the conservatory roof.

25.1.12 Tops with bows, sequins, ribbons or stripes.Trousers straight or boot leg, on waist or hips. So many choices I spent too much!

26.1.12 The frozen lump of beige soup softens in the pan. I take a taste, still can’t identify quite what I put in it but it’s surprisingly tasty.

27.1.12 Firm, white, shiny eggs in the bowl. I press down with my fork. Yolk appears, mayonnaise spreads. White and yolk mix. Egg sandwiches.

28.1.12 I stand at the landing window. A familiar silence surrounds me. At a nearby house people chat, children play. My silence suffocates. 

29.1.12 A first! My little grandson said, “Here yar Mamma” and gave his dummy to the phone. He called me Mamma and it melted my heart.

30.1.12 I run wet hands across cold clay. It softens and shifts beneath my fingers, warming to my touch, gently inviting me to mould it.

31.1.12 I wake to the perfect pitch of a blackbird greeting the morning. I smile even though he’s really issuing a warning, “My territory!”