Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Scribble on the skin

The way the light flooded into the room, how strange angles of low sun reflected in the windows opposite, bounced in and made him feel like North was suddenly South. For once, he drew up a chair and sat down to write at the table, in the space that had been patiently waiting for him all these months.

Beside him on the window ledge, the chives drew a beautiful scribble on the skin of the pumpkin. He loved the colours - the green tangled threads, the dark purple grey definition of the shadow, the speckled rough orange skin. 

In the fragment of a moment before his pen touched the page, his eyes were inspired by fluidity, stillness and stone.