SENSE OF HERE

The highest peaks are catching the last rays of sun as it dips in the west, sending the land into shadow. It’s just before 4pm and I’m looking over lines of grey on green, each fell writing itself on those beyond it, lines of light and dark writing the passing of time, another day’s turn. 

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a rising sun, milked gold
raven’s call echoes into sky
 
how much difference can a moment make
how much difference can a moment make

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We’re driving in, listening to the radio and all the talk is about Brexit – last night the government’s deal was voted down, Corbyn called for a vote of no confidence, and there is, if there could be, even more political uncertainty than before.

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The sun is being played by clouds, lining the high points of fells with gold for brief moments. Here in the valley the light is bringing the subtlest of blues out of the black-white tumble of the beck. We’re very gently gaining height as we stroll up Greenburn, with the beck to our left and the bracken-covered fells towering on either side of us. 

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It has started. This evening I was standing at the ironing board flattening the hems on a piece of white cloth measuring 250x250cm. A blank canvas.

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