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.
from Etching of a Line of Trees by John Glenday