21st April 2024
I sat upon the gritstone pavement at Penwyllt – high above the valley the sun beginning to set and cast a golden light, deepening shadows and turning them magenta. I tried to draw the hills, but capturing changing light is difficult – like trying to write with clotted ink.
Blake spoke through the sun beams – he whispered of the universe and the mineral presence of God.
We were high on stardust.
Cribbarth purpled and gilded whispered J.D.Innes – the drawing told me tales of Graham Sutherland.
Eleanor described the wind turbines as a plethora.
We sang with the skylarks.
