The Orchestra
Beneath the hills, a river of history, a rushing of time through mud and stone. The rock is the body, its curves caressed by a grass-green thumb. Old trees whisper, Home, Home, as their young branches dance like the elbows of an orchestra. Late Summer leaves sing sorrowfully, mournfully, sighing in tune to the song of the wind.
One of my favourites types of light is when heavy rain and sun occupy the same moment in time. The earth is lashed with clouds' impending shadow, while rays of sun warm the quiet landscape.
In Northern Ireland that rain is never far away, but nor is the sun. Wind is a force to the reckoned with, but welcome too. As much as its backhand can steal the breath from your lungs, it's soft palm invariably sweeps the clouds from the sky. Rain leaves the moist earth ticking and dripping with sweet percussive music, while sunlight shines anew, even more joyfully, painting the panorama with a palette of hopeful new colour.
Beneath the hills, a river of history, a rushing of time through mud and stone. The rock is the body, its curves caressed by a grass-green thumb. Old trees whisper, Home, Home, as their young branches dance like the elbows of an orchestra. Late Summer leaves sing sorrowfully, mournfully, sighing in tune to the song of the wind.
One of my favourites types of light is when heavy rain and sun occupy the same moment in time. The earth is lashed with clouds' impending shadow, while rays of sun warm the quiet landscape.
In Northern Ireland that rain is never far away, but nor is the sun. Wind is a force to the reckoned with, but welcome too. As much as its backhand can steal the breath from your lungs, it's soft palm invariably sweeps the clouds from the sky. Rain leaves the moist earth ticking and dripping with sweet percussive music, while sunlight shines anew, even more joyfully, painting the panorama with a palette of hopeful new colour.
Beneath the hills, a river of history, a rushing of time through mud and stone. The rock is the body, its curves caressed by a grass-green thumb. Old trees whisper, Home, Home, as their young branches dance like the elbows of an orchestra. Late Summer leaves sing sorrowfully, mournfully, sighing in tune to the song of the wind.
One of my favourites types of light is when heavy rain and sun occupy the same moment in time. The earth is lashed with clouds' impending shadow, while rays of sun warm the quiet landscape.
In Northern Ireland that rain is never far away, but nor is the sun. Wind is a force to the reckoned with, but welcome too. As much as its backhand can steal the breath from your lungs, it's soft palm invariably sweeps the clouds from the sky. Rain leaves the moist earth ticking and dripping with sweet percussive music, while sunlight shines anew, even more joyfully, painting the panorama with a palette of hopeful new colour.
The Orchestra
13cm x 13cm (5” x 5”)
Acrylic/Collage on Paper
Original Artwork - includes black bevelled frame, glazed with white mount - strung ready for hanging