When I think about mud, I know that it is the inevitable consequence of the nourishing rain meeting hospitable soil. I think about mud quite a lot… being here.
I don’t blame the rain. Not at all. Its occasional parade pandemonium comes with a silver lining: snazzy raincoats, lush landscapes and that smell. But the earth, well, that’s a different matter. Packed with nutrients, buried bones and worms. It’s just so important and worthy. And dull. Ditchwater.
It’s the earth that hates the shoes, infiltrating curves where the leather touches sole. Spitefully it attacks heels built for clipping along pavements, clacking on wooden planks. Not mud. Lying doggo, it sprawls there, minding its rocky soily business. Don’t be fooled. It’s skulking, traps set. One careless, ill-shod trot over damp grass and that’s it, scarred for life. Earth triumphs, shoes ruined.
Wellies, it is then. But your smug socks won’t last. The first boot slithers off easily – a tidy illusion. With the second foot, the socks will, the hands will, your trouser cuffs will, the floor will, everything will be muddy, spotted brown.
What if it wasn’t that colour? Tan, sludge, slurry, nut, beige, café au lait, khaki, chocolate, burnt umber and buff. Nope. If the soggy dirt can muster cornflower and calendula from a few titchy seeds and a shower, why must it stay that shade of slop?
