Death From Above

To the woods today, emblazoned in damp and amber. Searching a stash of magical balm. To soothe my heart and quell my woes.

Soul so leaden, lonely, atomised. Scruffy ducks and pied crows. Wattle and daub. Splish splosh. Dogshit and storm clouds augur grimly.

That escalated quickly !

Low to the ground curled up in a ball saying I don’t want to die now as lightning streaked around me.

Beneath a tree is the worst place. And the only place to hide. Seared branches. No Mississippis. Armouries of hail.

Glad to be alive.

Armchair Psychogeographer

The wilds of the ancient forest. Only 3 stops from home.

In borrowed trainers I set out for the treeline. Out along the marshy plain, the boggy Ching bubbling between my toes. Cold and squelchy, a mile into the deep topographical adventure of my whimsies, a slipshod rambler out of step with my terrain.

I dream of drawing comics about landscape and place, but I haven’t made them. Not really. I’ve had a go. A half go.

Easily distracted, as I stumble through the woods grasping my phone. Looking at maps and paths. Trying to google specific trees of note as I’m literally surrounded by them.

And then I see something, a muntjac in a little glade. And I stop for a moment. And remember to just stop. And look.