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Up behind our woods, where our forest peters out into the next forest that once was sheared to the ground, where the trees stand crooked and spindly, and beyond an army of rail-thin saplings marches away to the distant mountain, a shadow on the horizon, we walk on the trail we have carved in the snow.
It is silent here in the forest, the only sounds our feet
squeaking over the packed snow of our winding path, and the rush of my breath
captured inside the hood of my coat. The sun sits low in the sky somewhere
beyond the trees, colouring it a creamy yellow that melts into the palest
lavender.
I stop at the rising rush of wind, whooshing towards us from
the mountain, the sudden sound from silence, and watch as it tumbles about the
ragged edge of the woods, reaching in to knock cascades of snow from branches
to shower magically through the air, capturing the fading light just so. It
floats to the ground and sparkles on to my face like a million tiny bubbles
exploding from a glass of champagne.
Murdoch and Molly dig about in the deep snow for sticks, their faces disappearing behind white masks as I watch the wind weave through the treetops and the snow fill the air like fairy dust. And for a moment everything is just perfect.
Murdoch and Molly dig about in the deep snow for sticks, their faces disappearing behind white masks as I watch the wind weave through the treetops and the snow fill the air like fairy dust. And for a moment everything is just perfect.
The evocative power of your descriptive poetry always amazes me, affects me.I feel the momentary magic of the natural landscape around you, I see it, I hear it. The scene is wondrous but fleeting, and it is this very beautiful impermanence which steps out of the frame. Your "painting" stares back at me, making me think, reminding me about loss, about absorbing the moment. It is a "pretty" piece and yet it bounces me around. I like that in art.
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