Monday, 17 January 2011

Fingers cold and bumbling from rain and cold, its surprising how one can write from an action in the wrist and not fingers, might even call this embodied cold!
Any exposed place - hillock, crevace, ridge, drop, is overtoppling  with water
the earth can't imbibe more so it gathers swelling on the surface, each step swallowed as one goes, everything blurs its shape with overabundance
today the silver birches have turned a dingy vermilion mottled with brown, the hazy pink nimbus rained away

The barn doors swing like giant eyelids,
opening and closing the view.
Here, look at this, shelter from that
A loud bang as one slaps the outside wall, light in, pond reflecting
The other wavers to a close
and swiftly, silently back again
The wind reveals what it wants me to see
Both wide for a moment, as if gone, then shuffling in gently twinning.
The choreography of wind and doors,
Slow Stravinsky rhythms, insistent yet unbalanced
intricate and subtle
Wind has never been more visual

stumbling up from the charcoal tree
I see the first snowdrops
I have a long way to go in observing if a crowd of snowdrops appears unoticed
their likely fates to be drowned or frozen
without a touch of light , they look grey

the looking needs to start again
the looking is always new
the looking is always ahead of you
the looking has only just begun