.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment