Black shapes of trees. Flint, slate, stone in the meander of a rambling song running with a stream singing of waking, waking in the north and in the seeking of this silver voice we come to the slant-roofed farmhouse with lamps burning in the windows, the curtains all drawn and a mill-stone leaning against a stonewall wears a quarter in grooves. Inside under low smoked beams the fire burning we are shown into an inner room with no windows where stones and bones are stored in white boxes the artifacts wrapped in white tissue paper like new shoes. One stone olive green head placed on a shelf starts to sing its voice raising dark shadows to join trees as a candle flickers, pulses in the darkness of the room where there are no windows but an endless view that begins with the black shapes of trees.
|Rodney Legg with part of his collection|