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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.


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