We are silhouettes, shadows against the skyscape, although our feet are rooted in the earth. The artist Nature mixes a palette of lilacs, pinks and yellows to celebrate a new day’s birth and, while her brush hovers over shades of rose and primrose, the sun bursts forth and decides on gold. Kim M. Russell, 15th […]
Tag: #writephoto
At the Crossroads
She stood weeping at the cross- roads, a delicate English rose, torn by the thorns of a troubled life, seeking balm in the bubble of a fragrant garden and the answer to the age-old dilemma, the decision we all have to make: which path should I take? Kim M. Russell, 1st February 2019 My response […]
Falling
It’s falling – snow, white and bitter, blows in on biting winds perfumed with winter. Thickening flakes paint a pointillist monochrome landscape, a gift for the optimist, sled ready, hoping for a white-out, while a crowd of children starts a snowball fight. By late afternoon, everything’s silent and grey, even the snowmen have nothing to […]
Halo of Imagination
How incandescent is graffiti of the mind! On naked brick a celestial trick, a light show of imagination in deepest winter’s meditation. Kim M. Russell, 19th January 2019 My response to Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo Thursday photo prompt: Imagination #writephoto
Renewal
In a bright display, dawn bursts and colour- washes the sky with a still life of hot pink, purple and gold. Aurora ameliorates and burnishes the old in a bleak, wintry landscape with silhouetted lucidity and an artist’s eye. Kim M. Russell, 4th January 2019 My response to Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo Thursday photo prompt: […]
Winter Woods
In light so low, the winter woods merge into a silhouette of shadow. Above the silent solitude, clouds roll and break in snow-blasted billows, crooning chilly songs to fill the night with the scent of frost and its icy bite. Kim M. Russell, 28th December 2018 My response to Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo Thursday photo […]
Skulled
Grassy scree sweeps, a crumpled quilt on windblown moors, broken only by thistles like globe artichoke heads and a sole skull, once warm and woolly but now long dead – no skeleton, the only backbone formed by distant tors. Bowing stiffly before the threatening gale, sedge clumps hiss and escaping hoverflies hum a monotone refrain. […]
