No golden hour this evening, only grey light, soft rain and some boisterous breezes. Still, the fresh-looking barley field at the top of Hart Hill was wonderfully alive with the wind, ears of wheat darting every which way like tiny panicked fish.
Hart Hill (2020)
No golden hour this evening, only grey light, soft rain and some boisterous breezes. Still, the fresh-looking wheat field at the top of Hart Hill was wonderfully alive with the wind, ears of wheat darting every which way like tiny panicked fish.
1–2 minutes
8 responses to “Hart Hill (2020)”
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Thank you! It was funny, looking at the images in readiness for posting, all I could see by the end of it was fish, even though just a few hours before I’d been standing in the middle of rather damp wheat field. I’m hoping to return to the same spot under sunnier conditions, a different feel then I expect – or maybe just lots more fish? 😀
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I don’t like to push my own barrow on other’s blogs, but I wrote a poem that was good enough to get pinched by someone somewhere:
Swaying grass in wind
teaches me to dance in one spot.
It makes the hillside waltz but really not.
It just seems that way…. etcI think your fish image is better! Of course, part of the experience is the wonderful wind!
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Push away! I’m very happy for your complete poem to appear on here – nick one of these images for a re-post of your poem on your blog – I guess that’s the nice thing about putting stuff out there, right? Nicking stuff with links and provenance is what collaboration looks like 🙂
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I know, my mum is a champion crochet-er, so I’m always having chats about wool and colours – and I can definitely feel an itch sometimes to take these photographs into textiles – I just don’t have the talent for such a thing – unless it’s sewing things from nylon-tights… but those things always end up as abject! Do you stitch? If so, stitch away!
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I do quite a bit of embroidery. I recently pulled out something I started years ago that incorporates some ideas from Van Gogh. Still trying to pick up my train of thought with it. And its large, so months of stitching lie ahead. But I find it meditative.
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[…] At the beginning of the month, I went out to the top of Hart Hill, where a large field of whiskery barley covers the gentle camber of the hill. On that particular day, the sun was awol and the rain intensifying, so I didn’t stay long, though long enough to delight at the way the barley kept darting in the breeze like tiny startled fish. […]
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