idle pensée… hunkered down on the brow of the hill, gorse flowers, dense clumps of dragon goblet gold blackthorn with straggled open branches, creamy froth of blossom, the impossible festoon from each smidgin of surface hawthorn pushes through into soft green leaf the spell of water… peering down upon a pond, which in turn yields up the sky, a nuanced, mottled reflection of clouds… nuage a riff on the idea of ‘sky’, with its serpent deeper, more sonorous timbre, tone and flow minuet between air and water, the surface wind ruffled, pucker kiss stippled we are forever poised between this up and that down! bramble snag of mind, wistful, the yearning to tell is always one of the forms of love?
