Edge of the woods.

A dreich morning gives way to a sharp cold sun in the afternoon. Walking across the stubbled field icy splinters of nippy wind smart and I bury my head deep into the collar of my coat. Along the field edge I spot a shard of blue and white pottery sticking out of the mud. Is there a field anywhere that doesn’t have bits of once used and cherished bowl, platter or teacup ? Rubbing the smoothed glazed surface brings to mind the other finds I have stowed away in various coat pockets. From acorns to pebbles, feathers to more blue and white pottery, they lurk in their darkness, my own hidden curation of walking. I turn my back to the field and look at the edges of the wood, the verticals of sun and shadow, watching the light recede into its own interior . A hasty drawing to think about this , an act of translation, from the original into a loose approximation of understanding. I walk back across the field scanning the earth this way and that, alert for the next piece for the collection.