Snowdrops in the Wood

The Boat on the Other Bank

I am in England, that boat over there is in Scotland.  These days I am fascinated by the shapes of trees, I think I am gearing myself up to paint a boy in a wood, a boy who is following the cry of a captured hare. Trouble is, the story is set in June, and the trees I am enamoured of are in their February colours. What will change, the colours or the season? I saw some historical Japanese armour and horse armour last Sunday, and I fell for those colours too – dark red, metal grey, buff. sienna, dark brown, gold, silver, black. Charismatic, strange, beautiful. Coming back home today I came across a tree full of bullfinches – well, four or five of them, and some of their colours are in the same range.  My favourite birds, I haven’t seen any for more than ten years.  “Fairy birds” I believe is one of their folk names.  I couldn’t take proper pictures of them, as I only had my small camera today, as I wasn’t intending to take many photographs; and I certainly wasn’t expecting to see bullfinches. I’ll go on the qui vive over the weekend with the camera that magnifies more, and see if they are still haunting the place,tearing the buds off the tree with little jerks of their heads.

Landscape with Sunshine and Far Cloud

The Lane to the River

Trees Across the River 2

This is the feeling that I want for the woods in my picture book.  The part that is set in woodland talkes place at nightime, but maybe I will just put some stars in a lilac sky to signify the dark, and keep these delicate colours.

Trees Across the River 1

Deer 2

Deer1

The Stricken Tree

On The Lees, a large expanse of farmland divided up into several crops, there are various markers and paths and passages between plantings that circumscribe or extend the walk one takes – the shortest walk I make has been towards a big tree growing beside the Tweed, at a spot were two paths diverge.  There is a bench there, and a fishing marker.  As I was walking towards this tree the other day I couldn’t recognise it as itself, as the shape was all wrong; and when I came up near I could see that great hunks had been torn off and were lying in a jumble beside it. The beauty of the tree was ravaged, its main trunk ragged against the bright slate winter sky. Now I notice all the blue and white and red markings on trees that show they have been condemned, and find it poignant that they should be felled.

Catkins 3