SENSE OF HERE

Voices travel featherlight on the wind, like a kind of music, and then drift off and the air is a tumble of water once more, the chill of October edging in on the tail end of the year. The grasses around me have faded to brown. Heather too, withdrawn and quiet now, forgetting flowers and its warm pink August flush, holding energy instead in roots and leaves.

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September 7 2019

I’m sitting beside Wastwater, looking at the canvas and the land beyond it where the sheer rocky screes tumble into the lake. I’m still, and quiet, simply watching the play of cloud shadows on hills.

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It’s bin collection day. In any case, the A591 is getting busy now it’s approaching 9am. The birds are raucous in the trees, unwittingly competing with the sound of traffic – but when there is a break in the traffic, being here is like being in a dome of sound: tweets and chits and chats and phees and phews resonate in busy conversation. And I’m here, with memory and hope. 

Memory and hope

So much hinges on these two things

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Moment is a place in land and a place in time

for now, this is my choice: just to sit and be

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We set out just before seven, sky pale blue and pink, the air a riot of birdsong: wrens, woodpeckers, blackbirds, blue tits, great tits, chaffinches and others I can’t name. We’re in the Haweswater valley, surrounded by trees, many of them old, lumbering giants, covered with moss and ferns. 

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I walk in and between / this place shaped by cultures / the walls and paths and fields of humans / the culture of trees in touch with one another and the soil around them through an underground web

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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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The day is windless and bright, perfect for our first attempt at installing the canvas. It looks serene, settled into the bracken-gold basin of Wythburn.

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