On Pathways Made by Hooves

Yesterday, when walking up the hill and writing, I walked back down via a tumbled wall. Here the stones are alive with lichen. I picked one up, selected from the centre, and took it home. I promised the hill I would return it within a day’s cycle.

Not smooth like the beach stones, this is pitted with age and wear and weather and growth of tiny lichen. And lichen itself is such a complex creature, a symbiotic joining of fungus and algae and something else.

So hard to gild, and yet somehow it worked.

So we walked, up to the high hill, under the tree tunnel.

Ravens greeted our arrival. Huge, dark. You can see how big these two are in comparison to Ivy who chased them away.

Before I could begin writing I returned the stone to its home. Some stones are meant to be found and taken. Some stones i hope will stay. I want to see what happens with this one and I hope that anyone finding it will know that it is mean to stay. The plant/fungus/lichen needs to breathe in the open air, to feel the wind, rain and cold and sun on its skin.

I love how it hides in the small slope of scree.

And this, so green, lime green, just beautiful.

So, I write for a while, trying to gather threads, let things happen and not push the boat.

The ravens have left a message, in skin, hair and bone. Such fragile bones.

In the distance the ponies have opened up the pool again. Meadowsweet and bluebells flow down from where they are, soon, not yet in flower, but they are there still, and we go to take a look. And a red kite circles above us in the blue.

The ponies have opened pathways around the fields of Maes y Mynydd, so we walk that way, and find the fields filled with fieldfare and swallow.

This is where I found my first book, so many years ago. I remember the struggle to find the words to weave the story.

Home past the dandelions that glow, constellations of small suns in fields of green. My uncle used to make dandelion wine, but never knew you could also batter them and deep fry. Will try it, see what they are like. And the ferns unfurling fast, each leaf still folded.

Home now. Too many distractions to settle to write. Tired legs, tired dogs. Finished reading Tatterdemalion. Want to read another book, and want to start a book and then do nothing but read until it is finished. But, first I think I need to finish writing……

And then there is this:

which I think is a key to the story I am working on. I hope so. I love the mystery of this and the 424 others like it, but not like. Thanks Bernie, for showing me the way to them.

The post On pathways made by hooves appeared first on Jackie Morris Artist.