Sunday, 16 November 2008

Five cry riff

Ears crack awake before eyes. A five cry riff has them hooked in. Five accents and a minim rest, before it begins again, relentlessly repeating, like a crooked alarm my sleepy arm can't reach to silence.

I squint to check the clock in the pale hint of dawn. 6.05 Sunday morning. Crow time must be an hour out. I listen to his incessant pattern for the next half hour, wondering if he will ever try out some other sounds, some other chimney stack.

Ahead of myself now, looking out at a heavy grey sky that weighs down, optimism tells me that there is the merest hint of blue out there. But, I was hoping for a bit more light to bounce into the house today. 

I need to finish a painting, a gift for someone, and dark November days are not helping. I gaze at it across the room, follow a track on that mountain, where my eyes want to drink in the views, where my heart wants to soar into the colours, where my sensible feet want to feel the pull of gravity to keep me on the loose stones of the ridge.

Still in my pyjamas, I pick up the brush, mix some white into cerulean, and listen to the five cry riff scratching over the back end of the weather forecast.


Pleased that a very short piece of mine has been chosen for today's post on
Thanks Fiona.