You can say this. I have checked. If you swift off a vowel and pull down another, pull in an alternative and jinx with the ing of itself, a ditsy swing with the ‘acceptable’ , `you shift the lines.

I like to shift the lines. I have fat-battled with dictionnary confines for years and will continue to lift my sabre. ~~ I love the language, the english lanuage, it was my study for all my student life which, as you may know, wasn’t that long. But my draw to wordage, the melding and infuriation of words, those word which wanted to move forward, against a finite within the darkened and cloaked halls of the Official Dictionary, the word is pretty much spent. Nowhere to go with an ing at the arse of itself.

Back to the cold. I feel it, smell it, see the seep of it under my doorframes. I also remember Tapselteerie and that cold was pervasive, almost vindictive and it lived on for weeks, months. When that first ‘Spring’ elixered itself in, it brought no warmth. I do remember walking out with collies, with shivers, to check the dawnlight lambing, the frost like a stopping on the parks, each ewe lit up by my torch, icicles lifting from each fleece. I remember feeling shy about my feeling cold thing. It’s different now, for me. No sheep, no dawn walks, no need for me in the cycle of life here. My home is warm and I have no calls to be out there in the out there of anything. It is a loss for me.

I come down the stairs just to come down the stairs. I smell the old ways, It comes from my right, up there, somewhere, The rut is over, the hinds are safe, Sheep wander like numpties, grazing. I see a good mother hind, her two year calf with her, her one year boy with nubby felt horns. They graze without fear, just there. I tell them, I ak no threat. Their heads go down. They’re not afraid of me.

I fry mushrooms in garlic, boiled linguine. I am warm in here.