On the Edge of a Strange Night

Every Painting has a story. Here is one of them

There is a Blinding Beauty when your in the thick of it;

The Woods, The moon, and The Snow.

Blinding Beauty, Awe.

Blinding tears that blur the vision.

Blinding strangeness that makes the eyes doubt what is perceived, so they roll back from time to time looking for the way out.

I am out on a moonlit late-night walk

for the good of it.

for the soul nutrition of it.

I don’t walk fast, This is not about getting the steps in.

I stop to stand often, turning slowly, a magic-rotisserie sparkle marshmallow of the north.

plump with warmth, filled with awe.

Getting lost in it,

then coming back again: to the Edge of a strange night.

What a shame it is that you can only look in one direction at once,

When the whole way round is beautiful beyond compare.

Walking hungrily at times to consume the way the light catches the trees.

I’ll never get enough.

I find myself face to face with an Icon, The Hill in the Valley, we call her Ester Dome now,

though I often wonder what she was called before, and what her true name might be…

At her feet the trail forks.

I look up at her

I look down at the trails

I look back up at her.

I listen to the quiet within.

I wiggle my toes. press my hands to my cheeks. Calculate how far I am from the warmth of my cabin currently.

I turn to look at the moon, who is looking at the Hills.

Hmmmph.

I pause to listen again.

I walk slowly and with reverence to the cross roads.

We all exchange glances again.

I ask my toes if they are up for it

I have a hunch that the trail is all a loop (I have very good hunches about where trails go…most of the time)

With confident toes we take the Left fork and march proudly into the Glitterscape, armed with a gleeful grin and a spontaneous laugh.

Happy to squeeze out a few more tears of blinding beauty before I turn in.