Field edge.

 

DSC_3547a

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.

Hawthorn text

 

DSC_3225a

 

Sparky, furious, untidy tree,

with your limbs akimbo, all snaggy and crooked.

Like you just woke up from a restless sleep,

breathless, wild.