Field note.

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A dusty, skiddy child worn track dives, headlong into the rolling folds of green. They darken with the shadow of a crow, sending a skylark up, up, its song getting thinner, sweeter, higher. I watch how the land pitches, forever caught in mid-fall.

Field edge.

 

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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 Рeach 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.

Hawthorn text

 

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Sparky, furious, untidy tree,

with your limbs akimbo, all snaggy and crooked.

Like you just woke up from a restless sleep,

breathless, wild.