Bare fields and gurlie skies.

I am getting back to some painting, my studio is smelling of turps, well actually its lavender spike oil. I’ve had to stop using turps, don’t think its doing me any good, inhaling the fumes all day. But this afternoon I need to get out for a walk, so I decide on badgers wood. I didn’t realise how cool it is, a north east wind wheeking through the line of beech trees that mark the northern boundary. I check out the badger setts and make my way through the conifer plantation next to a the ruin of a cottage. Standing under the tall pines the wind creaks the branches, their voices exclaiming how inclement the weather has become. A buzzard replies with its plaintive cry, followed by a series of small squeaks from above – a pair of goldcrests dancing from one branch to the next, and above them a brown bird with a white front shambles its way up the tree. Odd. I’ll look it up when I get home. Out of the wood across the bare fields, the sky is darkening and the wind picks up. I make my way back , hands deep in my pockets, head down back to the car.

Back home over a cup of tea, I look up the bird I couldn’t identify. A tree creeper. Ha, well thats a new one for me. How brilliant is that.

Gurlie by the way means blustery, threatening, bleak weather.

Farm land. September.

Borage blue stars, ox blood dockan seeds. Nettles as tall as they will get flank the oat field. Cabbage seas peak and crest the rise to the north, steely, cold. In the copse, ash trees jostle with tall pines. Leaves clatter through the canopy like coins in a penny pusher arcade game at the fair. One more tuppence……. Something stirs a large flock of seagulls in a fallow field, westward. They rise screeching, whirling, waltzering. They circle and settle once more.