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Chapter Seven
A Season in Time
No.103
Right
© Copyright Reserved - United Kingdom
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
Water flows with colours so true, dark light sometime green, red or blue.
As it travels, transverses along a decline, the water becomes white.
And one sees bubbles and foam entwined, dropping over a rock or stone, to the blackness...
The sounds of the trickle, accompanied by natures rush!
Resembling nature's harmonic scores and blush.
A dam made by a beaver earlier in the year,
The branches block and causes the water to pinpoint and twirl...
Sucking the leaves in; like one eating long spaghetti rope with a slurp;
Or is it one observing a hypnotic whirl, staring at a black hole, with the white outlining skirt...
A bath drain hole, to the deeper depths or one imagines a space wormhole...
Only for the leaves to bounce up in another part of time, in this world of mine.
Transported through time, meandering, continuing, the long, long ride of the fairground rollercoaster...
More water flows, from the heavens today frozen in slow motion, not as rain but as snow;
Slow motion, it falls and dances its way, coating the land, the trees, the rivers,
Like a feather it falls, like a powder it covers, flakes, they sway, backwards and forwards...
It dissolves into the black and grey shadows, it's gone!
Joining the masses; it is one colour looking still.
A dividing bar, dividing the landscape of what is and what's not...
The white blanket, changing the scenes, one hears the waters flow...
The neutral colour has changed to silhouette; a drawn line in the wilderness,
With a stroke of a brush one see's seasonal art, flickering lights like stars in the sky;
Decorations of a nearby town, the sounds that trickles like the crowd...
Reminded by the cool breezes blow.
To the freezing surfaces that will eventually caps the flow...
A rustle here a rustle there; like the stroke of an artist's brush.
The Robin has flown onto the canvas of mono,
The radiant dull, daubed with red breast of feathers and moves with small jumps,
Like a heart of gold, beating a promise of life reborn, is colourful from the artist's palette...
Compared to the Crow, the Raven and the Magpie, are at home in this frame, a reality.
As one shares the footprints, the telltale signs of the travelers, once been.
Sharing the story, some prints stop suddenly, like the water from a tap.
The prints of pitapat and the others, one could follow another day?
Unless! The blanket has been pulled back, only to expose the colour again...
It is now time to head on back home, the seasons tick, tock, the cycle,
The canvas changes.
As it travels, transverses along a decline, the water becomes white.
And one sees bubbles and foam entwined, dropping over a rock or stone, to the blackness...
The sounds of the trickle, accompanied by natures rush!
Resembling nature's harmonic scores and blush.
A dam made by a beaver earlier in the year,
The branches block and causes the water to pinpoint and twirl...
Sucking the leaves in; like one eating long spaghetti rope with a slurp;
Or is it one observing a hypnotic whirl, staring at a black hole, with the white outlining skirt...
A bath drain hole, to the deeper depths or one imagines a space wormhole...
Only for the leaves to bounce up in another part of time, in this world of mine.
Transported through time, meandering, continuing, the long, long ride of the fairground rollercoaster...
More water flows, from the heavens today frozen in slow motion, not as rain but as snow;
Slow motion, it falls and dances its way, coating the land, the trees, the rivers,
Like a feather it falls, like a powder it covers, flakes, they sway, backwards and forwards...
It dissolves into the black and grey shadows, it's gone!
Joining the masses; it is one colour looking still.
A dividing bar, dividing the landscape of what is and what's not...
The white blanket, changing the scenes, one hears the waters flow...
The neutral colour has changed to silhouette; a drawn line in the wilderness,
With a stroke of a brush one see's seasonal art, flickering lights like stars in the sky;
Decorations of a nearby town, the sounds that trickles like the crowd...
Reminded by the cool breezes blow.
To the freezing surfaces that will eventually caps the flow...
A rustle here a rustle there; like the stroke of an artist's brush.
The Robin has flown onto the canvas of mono,
The radiant dull, daubed with red breast of feathers and moves with small jumps,
Like a heart of gold, beating a promise of life reborn, is colourful from the artist's palette...
Compared to the Crow, the Raven and the Magpie, are at home in this frame, a reality.
As one shares the footprints, the telltale signs of the travelers, once been.
Sharing the story, some prints stop suddenly, like the water from a tap.
The prints of pitapat and the others, one could follow another day?
Unless! The blanket has been pulled back, only to expose the colour again...
It is now time to head on back home, the seasons tick, tock, the cycle,
The canvas changes.
Author: Nigel G Wilcox 09.01.21
