Woman in a pink coat.

 

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While I wait at the bus stop in Kirkcaldy a queue has started to form and way at the back stands an elderly woman in a shockingly pink overcoat. I smile at her and motion there is some space to sit if she fancies, so she comes over, I squidge up and we settle together on the standy up seats. Her hair is soft and white and sits like a cloud on her head, cumulus bringing fair weather. I comment on her iridescent snake skin jewels of shoes and she says, ‘I do like a bit of colour’,  her diamond earrings smiling with her in the sun. She tells me how cosy her house is and how she looks forward to the warmth after a mornings shopping. ‘Do you like my scarf ?’ she asks and I peep into a carrier bag to reveal a midnight blue sky with stars. ‘I got the matching gloves too’. Standing behind her an elderly woman carries a red plastic toboggan. ‘Hope you get the snow !’ I say and she touches the side of her nose laughing and says ‘Its for a project’. I am trying to imagine what kind of project as I get on the bus, whilst at the same time wondering where on earth my son might be. I think he is flying over the very far north of Russia. I remember I must buy eggs when I get back.

The quiet of rain.

 

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Mixed media on paper 170 x 60 cm.

 

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Monday. North wind. Bright, cold. The buzzard ushers me into the wood, sharp crack of twigs under foot. I decide to cross the burn but half way across realise its too deep so turn back and clamber my way up the bank where I am met by a man and his dog. This is my first encounter with someone in the wood. He asks if I am ok and I feel embarrassed by my clumsiness. I introduce my self as an artist as if that might explain things and he asks if I am famous to which I laugh and apologise and say no. He tells me about Japanese artists he was watching work and dragons and his new home he is building. He has a giant sequoia on his plot where his garage will be. It has to go, it shouldn’t be here anyway. I paint the fragile day. It starts to rain, the drops settle on the paper. I stop, not wanting the rain to obliterate my marks, carefully roll up the paper and quietly take my leave.