This is the world now. Without leaves with herons grey and craning high in branches like omens over winter water; a hawk turning, turning, in dull distant air above a ridgeline a cold wire fence the desiccated heads of old dead weeds. The world now is a pair of yellowhammers each on its own post then gone slipping sideways off on the elsewhere wind. The world now is plovers stepping in damp fields stopping and stepping and stopping a ripple of sky in a trough where black and white cattle moan and wait; wait for the truck and the hollow clang of a cold iron gate and steam from silage rising into the grey world, not knowing they're waiting for the end of winter the end of mud and rain and dark days, grey days, cold days in damp bones a skull eyeless and broken turning green under skeletal branches sinking into the earth, into the earth into the past. Sheep cough in the dark under a pale moon gibbous drifting beyond torn cloud.
1. Five weeks of intense contract work did this. Normal service will be resumed
as soon as possible soon.
1. Western skyline, Pohangina Valley.
2. View from the back door (click to enlarge it).
Photos and words © 2008 Pete McGregor