Do I take the road or does the road take me?

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Up from the valley

wedges of green part the scribbled wild

Steep, the smell of mycelia in the mould

and heart pumping silence

until monstrous diesel churning punctuates the Penny Pot pencil coppice

Above this infinite class of gangly adolescents wise old oaks discuss

brooding introspection

From forest edges to hedges to verges rustling with chattering chaperones

Black caps coal heads

Chains winding metallic engines

Freewheel

The invisible road

worn smooth by tyres

Where grass grows between the treads

 

Storm

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Trees blow like soft blonde hair in the distance

Evergreen feathers

The body resisting the bend

Every surface pushing back

futile fingers to halt a flood.

Engulfing

sweeping through naked trees

Great crashing waves roar through the tops

thrown up the beach and withdrawn

spattering spray on to my lenses

Obscuring

A disturbed heron rises

to be tossed up like tissue and over the baying poplars

And rain as thick as fog, droplets the size of sweet peas

impossible to face, I turned and felt

 

Mirrors

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Joy likes and not or                                                                                          Eat to eat for all                                                                                            Nettle field green                                                                                      Spider webbed monkey puzzle                                                                      A perfect lawn with brick battlements, five courses high                    Cordons of stout applewood beside artificial green netting                            Two cars placed carelessly and a purposeful man with a frosted plastic bag  of leeks stuck with pale clay soil.

The surface of the earth is dazzling this morning, like a layer of liquid  life. Clinging, hanging, equally repelled and attracted. Anode to cathode of  the intangible sky                                                                                          Pierced by a stellar stigmata bleeding light colour cold heat.

Three deep dark bream flex slowly in the half clear stream below this white  welded footbridge.

Life makes no sense, then it does.

White egrets

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Dawn broke fast the colour of grapefruit that my grandfather ate. A white needle forges through dense washed out blue, drifts twists and curls back to vapour. For a second I heard a grassy corner swelling with spring birds singing, a refracting inversion.

Great lakes of the sky chase the globe southeastward dragging in their wake the sounds of grey, a leaky tent to dampen the radiance of a Turner sky. These washed out battleships glow at their evaporating edges then submerge to leave 2 flapping egrets silhouetted in lack of light.

High land

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A few flakes fall in puddles lined with grasping ice. The suggestive horizon is sown with white as train carriage F is pushed and pulled past slateless steam sheds.

The verge is loaded with lightness as gorse bows in reverence, fern fans flatten in curtsey unmoved by the wind tunnel snow dust steel on cold steel.

River worn gullies, stooping saplings, broken branches.

Hazy birch tops huddle in rare beef steak smoky slabs of colour slicing through the greenest stone green of wedged conifers pierced by painted leafless larch spires of burnt sienna.

Meringue souffles top mumped grassy meadows. Apricot cast on white, rising above tree tracery. The solid forest stands with arms outstretched for enlightenment, knowledge on darkness. Half grace, half density.

A grubby palette of ochre and white reaches for the cleansing of the sky. This may be the closest that we can get to purity, the surface of the moon but for the clarity of reason. The brightest blue.

Westminster

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From the East a time lapsed tide herds bison from one corrall to the next. Breath in breath out. Rivers quicken streams and sink holes. Station to street to station. Eddies, walls, hurdles lights stop start, trickle. Warmed stone and empty steel cases filled with life. Pupae of untransformation.

While automatic weapons guard hot air, a piece of glass rises on the tide submerging castles, a flood of funds in a desert of belief. Naked Indian beans lean on their braces waiting for the next moon. Breath out.

It is the summer of this winter day beneath baubled peeling planes barking the colour of their remaining leaves. A velvet drink to quench unswept airwaves.

Butterflies wrestle from bloom to bramble. Their day is done before the tide has run. Past this fading facade they will fly again.

Sea lions

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Where elements favour water over air the disembodied lagoon swells with every lost breath. Vapourous dreams to feed cold stone lions. When a capsized forest of chandeliers pierce the mist from a second storey, the bustle hum of coughing engines splutter soft washing wake, delicately slapping the green clam clung fondament. Hollow hulls tap piles of oak. One million to raise a dome from the marsh, how many forests for a city?

Fog

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The magnifying emotions of light. It passes unnoticed.Under this foggy canvas great washes of feeling are illuminated. Cold ink stained horizons make blue feel like glacier ice. Then from the outside, intense radiation bathes the whole visible world in warmth. With this concealing medium, space becomes light, light becomes space.

Sound helps to see, to extend senses beyond. In the open cathedral of the beech forest, the sensations of rain fill the canopy and with them space within an enormous volume, out of body.

The spider’s web is filled with fog. Mapped with jewels of dew. The crystal piste illuminated by a forest of stars.  A mountain range of light, an atmosphere caught in a pocket of silk.