Tuesday, 9 November 2010
This world is laying out splendours for you, even now.
A rainy morning, a few hours of window box living. Looking up from drawing to pass through the jungle of herbs on the windowsill. Drawing and watching the red creeping plants on the roofs of the sheds behind the house. Laundry twists and wreathes on the line caught in the rain and gales. The wind comes in for a visit, using the chimney like a door, and wiping sooty feet on the hearth.
Another cup of tea. A cloud of birds sweeps in and stands on every bit of roof and antenna, all facing the same direction, not moving at all. Then they are up as one, and swinging through the sky in skewed directions, all reddish wings and crested heads, eyes fiercely hunting the reddest of berries.
Steam curling up from the poured out kettle, little ghost dances in the dull day's light. Little gasps of fresh air sneaking in around the windows. I count the hours in pencil scratch rhythms, sometimes even then laying out plans on still un-bought paper. I try not to let my mind wander to people far away. No, just up, up with the whirring and whirling of wind and feathers and tiny fisted claws.