The sun is on my back as I paint. I am standing at the edge of a field, behind me, a road, and I can hear cyclists whirring past, sometimes talking. Distant people, in small groups of no more than six, who are out walking, carry obligatory rucksacks, their voices carrying on the wind. I ponder, they are on a hill behind me, does sound have any gravity? Can sound fall? Perhaps the sun was getting to me. The weekend forecast is for very cold weather which seems unbelievable at the moment, but nevertheless focused my resolve in getting out to paint. Looking over the emerging crops, tall enough now to sway in the wind, I see a skylark tumble from the sky, as it reaches the green sea, it hesitates, flittering sideways, perhaps to hide a nest, before landing.
The sun is wonderful, though it reduces visibility and the horizon remains vague. The North Sea is about 30 miles from here as the crow flies and on clear nights, I am told ships can be seen with their lights blazing. Suddenly, I see a huge, grey, pot bellied plane, turbo propped with four engines, it flies slowly, seemingly brushing the hillsides as it passes. I hear approaching cyclists, one says to another, "They are probably on their way to Barton, I bet they turn left in a minute" A group, having walked from Millington pass by and we chat about the area. A red kite draughts up from the Dale, it turns repeatedly, all the time searching the ground before slowly windering away.
Then I sit down with Mary Oliver and read aloud...George resting on his side, it is that sort of day, and as I sit, the smell of grass reminds me of a summer to come.
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1 comment:
Enjoyed your view. And your views...
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