OLD TOWN Land green and velvet tucked beneath her chin, peninsulas shaping curving under her pearl shoulders, loose here and pressing there cottages white alabaster silver grey sometimes, clustered nesting places holding up against the sea her heaving waves of sea veil. An evening gale displays spraying salt pebbles and wind unforgiving rages lacerating the bedroom window, eyelashes closed and shuttered all night. Peat smoke drifts along the inlet long strands of gray hair twisting in the wind, the crone asleep as the storm descends below the jagged rock, teeth snarling at the edges of ocean, and past the thining lip of pine trees (consecutive rows of black against white–an army plotting), outlining that crack of sunset, its last breath–the glory of the day– invisibly brushing a wave aside, so gently touching and kissing this heaven place good night. Buried deep in the folds of grass and hill and emerald shawl, young cottages cluster tightly all over those crimson fields of slowly dying heather– as if rooted there always! Bog and toughened peat, rendered one or the other depending on the rain, depending on the shape of the day, the months, and years. The frost designs its own lacework collar choking the life of every young and old growing thing, slowly suffocating obliterating the sweet memory of warm love and the softness of spring and summer. Finally the snap of winter moves westward, the surging chorus of marching songs in unison driving in from Siberia commencing the Battle of The Atlantic Gulf Stream; heat and sunlight losing out to steely cold, bitterness and rain.
–Moon+Wynd Studio/Nov. 25, 2014…stream of consciousness–sort of.