Without a brush,how could a painter fleshout spectral fingers of left-over snow,dab them with early sun’s glow,or stroke lines of slender hazel treesablaze with catkins, golden with bees? And yet, there they are, scrapedas if they had escapedfrom canvas, pressedand dragged, distressedand burningcapturingevery summer, autumn, winter, spring,all life erupting. Kim M. Russell, 23rd March 2021 […]
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writing in north norfolk 