A short January walk in South Staffordshire; a mild winter up until mid-January, the fields rich with growth, the low mid-day sun silhouetting bare trees against rain-laden skies, stretching shadows across the vibrant greens; standing still against the breeze, trying to catch the swing of branches in a sketchbook; wind-blown thoughts of cutting a plate and a pool of green ink.
I carved out the careful absence of a hill and a hill grew. I cut away the fabric of the trees and the trees stood shivering in the darkness.
Today along the Staffordshire and Worcester canal at Dimmingsdale. Late dragonflies and butterflies, last nectar of the year for the loud frenzy of bees on the ivy blossom, heavy scents in the unseasonal warmth, grey wagtails bobbing along with sudden flutters of wings as flies pass by, still reflections in the water.