Saturday, February 26, 2011

Frame 8


The first spirit rises to the fiddler's beckoning melody.

Enveloped, too, by the watercolor blur of a dream we do see structure within the form - not detailed but enough for us to complete in our mind's eye the motion and grace of a lazy stretch from beyond the grave.

This isn't a corpse, rotting and wormed; but a reanimated representation of the base of what remains.

A projection, perhaps.

The mist's edge is sharper near the now-ink-black sky.  Fading and clearing, shifting and lingering about our figure, the branches of the bent branches to the right ...

... and always the graves.

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