Saturday, 21 February 2009

Battered bright yellow

In the Rosemary bush near the shed, I tied the bundle into branches that are about to burst into purple grey flowers. Shadows of those branches came into sharp focus on the blue paper and I felt the dry grit of ground up ends of pastels on my fingers, remembered that grains of yellow, orange and dark blue went inside the wrappings the other day. I tied tight knots in the white string as the Crow fidgeted and faked falling within the dark silhouette of ivy clad trees.

On the corrugated fence we inherited from unknown people who tended this piece of land before, shadows against the battered bright yellow make me stop and gaze. Around the claw of a bent hook, a left over string from tying up the towering Sunflowers that last Summer insisted on turning their backs on us and looking out across the neighbour's plot instead, casts a beautiful image. On the machine-made wavelets of the fence, the shadow of the string is like a captured moment of an arabesque danced barefoot on a darkened stage to a silent audience. It's unravelling twists are ringlets in the kind of hair I used to dream of having. 

Beneath it, on the edging sleeper, new moss ventures out along the grain, like a tiny hint of parallel bright rivers that might one day run to a delta beneath that yellow wall.

I picked three leeks for the soup I have been waiting for, knocked wet soil from their pristine whiskery roots, could smell them all the way home.