Tuesday, April 13, 2010
trumpet, catkins, breathing
Of the moment, a white daffodil explores the air.
You think of the bark of the silver birch and of its long tresses of leaves but forget to notice the catkins like fine caterpillars, not showy, but as delicate as you would expect from the most delicate of trees.
Plastic bags animated by the wind continue to fascinate (remember the video in Sam Mendes' film American Beauty). Today, I watch a Morrison's bag lying on its side, its handles spread out like the straps of a petticoat. A gentle breeze sweeps into the bag like air in a pair of lungs. The bag seems to breath in and breath out.
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There's something so delicate, so feminine, so beautifully designed about silver birches one feels they should be confined to the gardens of the upper middle-class. And yet they appear in hordes in huge expanses of wild open territory in Canada with the Rockies as a backdrop. Woking (no more teasing about TW) transported.
And Siberia, apparently. Certainly the Russian steppe.
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