I thought I’d finally managed to slow the image making, much to the relief of my soon to be screaming hard drive. Then Tuesday reminded us what a winter’s day can be like. This began a train of thought that has informed this week’s letter: a sequence of walking words for you to envisage, followed by a stream of images. When I set out in the frost, I knew that I would be so absorbed chasing the light that I would not pair photos with words, and the thought occurred to me that I could instead ask you what they prompt.
Here I will confess that this idea, of writing around another’s image, has been inspired by The Word, now in Week 4 of 5 for its first iteration. If you have even the slightest desire to mix words with images or wish to further develop your writing skills, I thoroughly recommend the next iteration of the course to you.
So, my invitation to you this week is this: if you would like to, choose an image, and write a few words or lines about what it evokes or what fiction it inspires. And if you feel inclined to, to share these. I would love to read them.
A story of place: take your imagination for a walk
Early on Monday the Moon has slipped her shroud and dropped to sit, just above hill line, engorged and pale skinned. When I next look, she has retired to bed.
The cold, known, yet comes as a surprise until I realise I’ve forgotten one layer of clothing. The deer are grazing on heather tips; spot them by the misplaced snow patches topped by heads turned 180°.
The stream by the gates, released from its bounds, is noisy - there is business to be done, somewhere to go. Does it know that in a few hundred metres it will be back into its narrow coffin?
Acceleration up dry birch bark alerts me to the presence of squirrel; I stop to watch not one but two aerial reds. Now at the top of the cypress hedge they sail along, making light of the forty feet that separate them from reliable ground. There are games to be played and squeaks of excitement.
Potassium bright, the rising Sun struggles to break free of opaque cloud. There is a hum, not of bee but of tractor plough and as if sensing honey, small birds raise their voices. Ditched water too is buzzing after vacating the culvert under the drive. The morning for once is calm; the trees along the drive stand mutely, lacking the leaves with which to gossip.
A small white feather catches the eye, slowly mapping the air. For the briefest moment it seems to flap as if a moth; it continues its flight long after leaving its owner.
Ten minutes further along, another pale semiplume settles on the ground to my left. It has company amid the trackside shrubs: wood pigeon. Did it meet sparrowhawk or goshawk?
Mark making on the road verge is visible now the snow drifts have cleared: turf sliced, undercut, and peeled back on itself as if skin. Depositions on the bank, high tide marks of sod, remind me of beached seaweed. I can imagine quests of knot, dunlin, and oyster catcher probing the strandline. For a moment I think I can smell the ozone of the sea. The land to either side rolls away from me like waves; I am deep in the swell. Yet the only birds to be seen are cock pheasant (right) and heron rising up and circling (left). Despite this, today, the rabbits are walking on water.
Later, the afternoon sky is swept, pale blue usurping grey, the remaining cloud pushed southeast to colour pink as the day fades.
Images without words: what thoughts do they prompt?
In contrast, Tuesday’s morning moon is bare naked and brazen but has gifted white gold. It is a day to savour; clear and cold with a heavy frost. The deer are again grazing on the heather that covers the moss; the birds are singing. Everything sparkles and it feels like the brightest day of the year so far.
I invite you to write your own words, in any form, from any of the images in this piece; they run the gamut from literal to obscure. I have numbered them for ease of reference. Alternately, enjoy an imaginary walk.
If you do accept my invitation, I would love you to let me know what words you write. You are welcome to share the image you select online; all I ask is that you credit me as image maker and include a link back to this post.
Wednesday morning prompted me to reflect on my analogy of walking through the swell, at which time all was static and the movement mine.
After the night wind, yet to relax its grip, it seems hard to countenance that the land itself has not shifted. In the dark of the imagination lies an image of earth becoming restless, a sea of deep time impatient to wipe the slate clean. We become flotsam, borne aloft by the waters from which we came.
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You’ll find more image rich writing in previous posts on FLOW’s home page.
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All images and text are copyright © Michela Griffith 2024
The invitation to accompany one of your lovely images with one's own words is a great idea, though perhaps a little daunting - particularly in light of your wondrous words... 😊. Thank you for another beautiful posting.