The fields run free with fresh rivulets birthed from over sodden ground. It is a challenge to traverse as my boots become heavy with thick, claggy earth. Caked as they call it, like fingers in over buttered scone mix.
Rain pours steadily over my nose, no sooner have I wiped one drip away another comes. Seemingly annoyed with my intolerance she shows me what she is truly made of and rains down upon me with all her might, I give in and allow it to fill my senses, she is raining and I am listening. Satisfied, her deluge eases and I take some meagre solace from under the wavering ash, bone thin in the skeletal sky.
Winter acts like a sieve for gold, conjuring up the frailest of beauty. Bringing all that is unnoticeable to the surface and then on days like today decorating it with jewel like droplets and misty shrouds. I look to the brown thicket where fawns were born quietly in the years before man arrived. All around me the last russet seeds of wild sorrel remain standing sharp and proud like fire on the foxes hunting route. Crows drift above me they care not for sanctuary in a rainstorm, in fact they appear to revel in it. Black souls painted open winged to grey skies. They call out the voice of their crone, cackling and laughing into a biting wind.
I breathe it in deeply. I should have come days ago, I needed this. Sometimes the best medicine is from the bottle you nearly used up on everyone else.
Author - Lucy
A painter & needle sculptor creating creatures with a tale to tell and a song in their heart.