Pitches made for painting

From Noirin I am drawn backwards to the inky grasses and such greenness and

– I can’t help smiling now as I discover brown grasses and more green and trees, so lovely, my eye is darting in amazement from tree lines to green to brown and again into pink depths and – is it a mound? No a reflection. Pity. I couldn’t lie on that mound and trail my hand into the water. But the water could draw me to the green grasses where I could climb out and roll around – but no, no … the angles suggest I sharpen up a bit. Get myself together. Function. But its bleak here – no sun. Is it evening – will the darkness on the left spread and spread? I look to the orange band for clues. And then further, to the green behind and the further distance, and my eye slides left again to the first tree – wintry. I’m not smiling now, and my eye won’t go into the thicket that enthralled before.

I turn away, around, contemplating the hazy water-land in front. Murky. Something spills over and draws me to the inky foreground. I look suspiciously to the left (though there is pink and gentleness there too) but I withdraw and burrow into the comfort of blackness and oblivion on the right bank. Are those white spots the eyes of some other fearful, burrowing animal? After a while of melancholy I find myself contemplating the pink bloom again.

Like the picture, this story has no beginning or ending – only the onward journey.