beneath the Beech wood canopy… a languid Symphony of leaf filtered, modulated light
the leaves a vibrant hue of lime green, yet the quality of this submerged light, cusp, of absinthe, of verdigris…
a gentle patina of bird song… else the susurration of wind caressing leaves, balm and hush… here, friston forest, people are few
this myriad columned hall
the trees are tall, smooth grey trunks… elegant, somehow high elven, cheerful, yet self contained, stopping short of aloof, beyond… fey
soft leaves, gentle to the touch, still holding the brown husk of their nascent sheath sleeves
leaf edges are can opener jagged, crinkle cut
the trunks are shaggy, moss footed, talons almost gryphon or basilisk? something from a bestiary… rising to a lightly speckled elephant grey
have you ever tried to push a tree over? I have. Obdurate
Rafferty gallumphs along the path, a happy, black, curly haired dog, so dry the ground, giving him the repetitive hollow thud rhythm of horses hooves
past nettles, ragged robin, purple campion
out on the fringes of the wood, a view across open farmland, field maple, elder, the white froth confetti of hawthorn in bloom
a hawk rises up, not a kite, not a kestrel, but buzzard
tatty, out stretched be-feathered fingers
she is framed in the foreground… paragliders, neon orange, away by the white chalk horse, on the hill beyond
stasis, painterly, stasis
[from a letter to T]
