sitting on the shore…

a quiet chat...

I just prepared this drawing for Songs of Albion but thought it would be nice for my blog too! Trying to create a certain kind of atmosphere is sometimes easier in black and white – or actually in this case, shades of grey.
I just saw the new comic for ExtraOrdinary – also in shades or grey. It’s very cool – make sure you move your mouse over the picture for some neat effects!

UPDATE: Thanks to Tom for this lovely evocative sonnet to accompany my image.

Charcoal twilight shadows sketched upon
the canvas sky illume a private tryst
between the silent hour before the Dawn
and the Dusk that lurks behind the mist
at day’s long close. A silent hawk swoops by
while Dusk and Dawn exchange a midnight word
beneath the Northern Summer’s peaceful sky,
a fleeting touch that’s been so long deferred.
They speak the tongues of twilight, voices soft
for sharing secrets commonplace and rare:
just where the Night goes hiding when the waft
of Summer comes to rule the Arctic air.
And when at last they’re parted by the Night
They know they’ll meet again by Austral light.

Copyright (C) 2011 TJ Radcliffe

image (cc) 2011 Hilary Farmer

ship in the mist…

moon struck...

And now for something completely different – a ship in the mist… a sneak peak at an illustration from our new project which will be coming soon to a computer near you… stayed tuned, we want to start posting Midsummer’s Day!

UPDATE: New poem from Tom – some further hints for the new project…

For when the Moon is waxing strange
and currents run just so
a portal opens to the world
where elder legends go…

(c) 2011 Tom Radcliffe

image (cc) 2011 Hilary Farmer

as lakewater rises into mist…

misty lake
misty lake

I was thinking about this poem as I created this image. It’s one of my favourite Rumi poems translated by Coleman Barks. It’s in a little volume I have, called The Glance.

The singer sings about love, until
the Friend appears in the doorway.

Kitchen smoke drifts up into clouds
and becomes a thousand-year-old wine.

I am here, not reckoning the credit
accumulated or future speculation.

I am the vineyard and the barrel
where the grapes are crushed, the

entire operation, whose transaction
pours this glass of wine, this moment,

this poem. A man stumbles by with
baggage, papers from the house, regret

and wishing, not knowing which to
tend to. Neither. After you see

the face, concerns change, as
lakewater rises into mist.

(If you click on the picture, you can see it larger.)

image (cc) 2009 Hilary Farmer