Dreams and dung heaps

I was alone in the hills because Mu was back at school.  I missed her chatter but not her having to stop and pee every 5 minutes because of her bovine consumption of water.  
She has been learning a word a day, the most recent being agathokakological  and euneirophrenia and practises saying them out loud, tasting the newness of them in her mouth.
Today my head had a bit more space but kept returning to a dream which floated around in my mind like a benovolant spectre.  
If my grandfather had lived beyond his hundreth birthday he would now be 110 or so.  
For the last few years he has taken the form of a sky lark which my agnostic mind has trouble dealing with.  It could be partially explained by the fact that my cousin played the lark arising on her violin at his funeral, but it is stronger than that and confuses me further because the sky lark is small and light and my Devonian grandfather who was brought up on clotted cream; black pudding and dripping bore no resemblance to a bird.
For a couple of years the sky lark has not sung above my head, which I put down to down to Papa being fed up with me and tired of my reincarnation theories.
Last night's dream would not leave me.  I was at his funeral with a bunch of strangers who seemed nonplussed by his demise and sneered at my outward show of grief as I stood over the open coffin.  I wanted him to come back to life and say the things he used to say like ' damn the maid' when I dropped one of his tools or 'he's sitting on the corner of a round table eating baked tatties raw' when I asked him if he knew where so-and-so was.
In dream land it didn't seem shocking that he came back to life and the strangers seemed uninterested in his résurrection. Even I took it as normal.  He chatted away coherently and I wanted to lift him out of the coffin and keep him with me but the heft of him made the likeliness of this improbable.  
He then became smaller and smaller, turning into a young boy and then a baby.  A pretty baby mind, not the reduced, wrinkled old man of the Seven Ages.
He talked away as I held him and continued to do so when he became a mouse.  I felt like his increasing smallness would make him disappear entirely and struggled out of the dream before this could happen. I felt a sense of relief that I could grasp the good from the jowls of the bad. I also realised that I'd managed to combine
the agathokakological  with  euneirophrenia.
It also struck me that the dung heaps which mirror the mountains are another example of the agathokakological ; cow shit and straw shovelled out of barns at the end of winter would become fertiliser and serve some good.
I felt that if Mu were here she would roll her eyes at my inane metaphors instead of being pleased by my use of her words in context.