north light

Month: January 2013

My fingers are frozen. Almost too cold to press the buttons. The morning is dark. Almost too dark for any hope of photos.

The clock is ticking. Five to nine. Almost too late for me still to be outside, taking photographs. Yet, the morning is breaking.

A pale light of apricot is moving over Criffel. Trees are standing contrast as the light grows behind. Field lines pop in the framing of the morning. Streaks of orange paint the winter sky.

My fingers tremble. It is not just with cold.

Oh god let me worship.

Orange streaks in the cold winter sky as the morning breaks over Criffel. A v of geese flying ahead. Fields, sky, hill.

V of geese, streaks of the morning. My breath moves with the V of the geese, with the breath of the morning. This morning, a hundred timepast winter’s mornings, all winter morns to come.

Fields, sky, hill. V of geese, streaks of the morning.

Siskin, so tiny, perched on the feeder.

Oblivious to my presence, or frozen to the spot, she doesn’t move.

I cannot comprehend how small she is, so close, so lovely, so small.

For just a minute, before she wakes to who I am, we share the same breath of space, the same sacred moment.

She is playing with lenses, filters, apps.

There isn’t time to look at the results, there isn’t time to gaze through the viewfinder.

It’s just click and the next one, click and the next.



For all the while watching not the viewfinder but the river, blue, pouring with life, watching the bridge, red brick old, graceful, statuesque, watching the sun, glinting, and warming the skin on her face.

Click and the next.

River, bridge and sun.

Suddenly she realises: she doesn’t care how the photos look.

It doesn’t matter.

She’s taken twenty, thirty, if not one works it doesn’t matter.

This is what matters: this moment, this taking, this playing, this not looking, this only clicking without thinking without seeing without framing, only

click and the next.

This moment, here, now.

River, bridge and sun.

heavy sleet morning
streaks of impossibly gold
swing on the feeder

Monday morning, outside, five.

Damp earth squelch beneath my feet.

Grey skies overhead.

Two robins hop the kitchen garden, morning hungry.

In trees so bare black, silhouetted: birdsong.

Pure, sweet, full. Soul filling, heart swelling, tear pricking, birdsong.

I fall back centuries. Woman standing in the morning garden, hearing birdsong of the heart.

Ground wet beneath my feet. Song, strength, peace in my feet. Song, strength, peace in my heart.

Five minutes only.


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