the brush strokes of the painter,
on this empty, elegant canvas.
A broad sweep of the brush,
then another and another.
Grass, gorse, heather,
And that perfectly autumnal brown…bracken.
For summers gone,and the moor breathes out,
relaxing luxuriously,just like
the fanning, dripping, ferns
and almost luminous grey green lichen,
of the hidden woods,
in the secret valleys of all time.
Ancient gnarled,bowed silver birch
surviving almost anywhere,
like the hard bred fox watching sheep,
and the imperious hare.
Firstly sketching the bare bones
of the toors,the sentinal toors.
Carboniferous and permian,Devonian style,
quartz and feltzite glinting,
so many greys and greens,
to mix with rain washed blue.
A distant Menhir,a stone man,
looks on and through time,
reminding him of his insignificance.
Wrapped up warm against this chill october,
cooler still on this high moor,
always a thousand feet above,
rivulets,streams merging now
into the ancient river Dart.
Giggling like a teenager,
shallow,broad,dark and beyond years.
Movement portrayed by clean,white,blue, quick strokes,
clearly heard from far above,
this deep wooded valley.
The painter sits and looks and waits.
For one more thing…..light.
Light changing with elemental speed,
undrawing a curtain across the moor…
the best clouds come…
grey, white,black with sun between..
majesticaly striding on and on….
and quickly sketching not to miss,
a solitary rider through the bracken,
sidestepping down a riven slope,
on a further field of view,
completing the picture.
The painter stands and smiles.
©Stu Peskett 2011-2012