Fault lines and fissures have again ensnared me. I went for the trees but found a seasonal pool, already visibly shrinking in extent. I’m lost within a deepening world of light and shade, line and colour. New worlds within await, the only pre-condition for entry a little imagination.
Birch trees, a wood, inverted. Reinverted and reinvented
The bright sun darkens its surrounding halo of water, each mote of floating dust a star around a moon. Dark lines on blue cloth, layered stems and branches dissolve into watery paint, ever softening.
Look long and deep enough and your gaze will be returned. What we see is a reflection of who we are.