Field edge.

Oil on panel -25 x 20 cm.

Stepping out into the light from the wood, stepping over the line, into the field. The wood, the field. The field, the wood – each have there own temporal planes, their own time zones. The field shrieks its haste, it knows its future is short, a season is all. The wood shrugs, knowing its own history, the stories, an unbroken line stretching away.  Its cycle is time-less. Crossing these planes of time is jolting, exhilirating. There has been no rain for weeks. I come back with dust from the field and mud from the wood on my boots.