Late this afternoon I walked over to the store and saw these
against the sky, contrasting with the few wisps of
remaining daylight and clouds.
On the soccer field a young boy, his father
and big sister, were using the time they had left
to fly their kites, proud to be able to get them airborne
and to keep them dancing on the evening breeze.
The bare limbs and branches of the pollocked pollarded trees
in the top picture remind me somewhat of the thick
and thin lines in some of Jackson Pollock's paintings.
* The correct word is "pollard," dammit, which
I learned earlier this summer. I just guess my
mind wants it to be "pollock."
* The correct word is "pollard," dammit, which
I learned earlier this summer. I just guess my
mind wants it to be "pollock."
The "artiste" below reminds me to never become
so confident that I lose sight of my true abilities.
2 comments:
What a fabulous sky! The chalk mark of a con-trail scrawled across the brush-stroke clouds and the stark silhouette of pollarded branches in the foreground. Fantastic!
I shall call them pollocks from now on. We have rather a lot of pollarded willows around here, but as they start to sprout new growth the mess of tiny twigs and shoots do indeed look like a Jackson Pollock painting.
I'm a fan of both him and Florence Foster Jenkins (who in their right mind could not love her?) and so the present you dropped in my email inbox this morning was the perfect start to an old man's birthday. Thank you so much!
Pollard, dammit, pollard. There was a race car driver years ago by that name, so I should remember. It's like the "plank" trees, I guess - knowing one thing, but calling it another.
And you're very welcome. I was introduced to Florence when I was participating in a choir workshop at age 16. Probably sound like her, now.
Post a Comment