Marshside (2020)


We went out looking for another field of dreams this week – and didn’t find one. The field we did find was bordered by a small thin stream choked with weed. There were promising layerings of dried grass, shadows, reflected light on the surface of the water, and the pointillism of the duckweed itself, but the camera only collected these things together like unmixed ingredients, the resulting images in no way magical or greater than the sum of their parts.

That said, a short way from where we parked, tall tired grasses were heaped up like waves, leaning against other roadside plants, and beyond them, all the straight sentries of the wheat crop. The wheat field was higher than the road and pushed into the distance further by the stream, now hidden completely behind the scruffy embankment. The sun, which was setting behind me, cast cool greying shadows over the embankment, and the whole effect was one of striation and flat desaturated colour. So no, not quite a field of dreams, but something new and painterly to share.



2 thoughts on “Marshside (2020)

  1. Reminds me of daddy Eliot:
    Red river, red river,
    Slow flow heat is silence
    No will is still as a river
    Still. Will heat move
    Only through the mocking-bird
    Heard once? Still hills
    Wait. Gates wait. Purple trees,
    White trees, wait, wait,
    Delay, decay. Living, living,
    Never moving. Ever moving
    Iron thoughts came with me
    And go with me:
    Red river, river, river.

    I like marshes and flood plains. They are the betweens of nature. Once this once that, neither this nor that. They often aren’t pretty, but isn’t there something infinitely charming about them?

    Liked by 3 people

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