Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Lines

Re-tracing every line, the eye is drawn in to follow the plane trails that show how wide the sky is before it fades into the pale shimmer haze of the sea. Criss cross and back again, they look like chalkboard marks from a shaking hand.

The seed has been cast into blinding white earth, that somehow will bear a heavy crop. Furrows race ahead and fall behind the round height of a hill with tracks like corduroys and woolen socks that meet at a ragged path on the field's edge and a hedgerow full of chaffinch song.

Old meanders, like white erratic veins, follow the ways the water has found a way down. Footpaths are patterned with the prints of boots and horseshoes in the greasy grey of many-times-walked chalk, half-baked in this sudden, ecstatic Spring. 

Slow between the tides, the river cuts a lazy curve of green. The banks are sculpted into clumpings of blond reeds with white manes. Slick silver mirrors of mud like newly rendered walls, slope into the deep and invite feet.