The beauty of Autumn so overwhelms me. Before the letting go and the inevitable floating descent, the leaves offer such a profusion of colour and form. What a way for them to die!
Good to get back to a bit of sketching
Gnarled fingers reaching up into sunlit skies, feeling for stars.
Nobody opens me any more. Nothing comes in and nothing goes out. I stand as still and straight as the two sentinels alongside me.
Space between trees, space between stones, space between people. Without space – the tyranny of the communal.
Have you noticed how words don’t always reflect what is in the mind? Focussing only on the words and forgetting the voice with all its modulation, tone and cadence, can be problematic. Often what is really being communicated is found in the hidden crevices of the voice. A special kind of listening is needed to hear it.
In the early morning light there was just something about this tree in the midst of all the headstones.
This dead tree always looks like a sentinel standing at the entrance of the barley fields. Whenever I pass it on my way to the woods on the right of this image, the old soldier in me wants to salute it. I love these fields which have produced crops and harvests year after year. They together with the skies of Kent give me a wonderful sense of spaciousness and freedom.