The dawn unfolds like a fresh wind, condenses over the countryside, gets caught on the fence of the fields, ignites and finally changes into rising light. The outline of clouds glows like a ring of bare brass.
Fading dreams circle, cobwebs tremble in the morning breeze, the sleep of nature comes to an end. Shadows of the early day stretch over the ground. They are darkish, blurred, because the dew nebulises the light and frays it at the edges. The darkness is peeling off like old paint.
The eastern horizon undulates like a silver snake which rests outstretched on top of the green hills.
The sky breaks away from the horizon. From this crack pours melted metal. The red sun creeps over the black line of pine and aspen plantations. There is no wind, but poplars rustle along the way.
The light filters through the branches and hesitates, as if too weak to fall through the leaves and shines on an inconspicuous timber hut far back in an overgrown garden. In the window burns a yellow light which is unaware of the dawn.
The sun stands low, but strives to the surface, climbs the crests, slides to the bottom of the lake, climbs out to the shore, where the woods shake the darkness off like a dog the water.
Rust red, pistachio green, brown gingerbread colours and lemon-yellow fruits with red chubby cheeks present their pride. Flower colours burn bright like flames despite the glare of the summer morning, carried away with the coolness of the nearby stream which has a deep grey green like a meadow at the end of summer.
A black horse grazes on the other side of the lake and does not raise its head.
Sunlight which enshrouds the bushes, the grass, the fern, dissolves their image into transparent amber as a sign of lost time.
When the eyes are replete of the sky, signs on the ground attract attention. A handful of sand from the shore and a few shells serve as a memory of past summer days.
At noon, motherly light pours like water into every crevice.
A falling leaf promises a brief pause and gives cause for whispered persuasions.
Poplars and birch are showing colours. The spider webs of memory ensnare the head, the presence is hazy, and will almost painless become the past.
Butterflies appear in late autumn, they find peace in the rafters, winter sleep, wait for spring.
The brown of their wings is like velvet, promise of recurrence.
Frosty December light at sunset. Dark blue woven in the air, immersed in the milky gloss of the invisible sun. Chalky white light dusts from above, blurring the shadows. Snow and fog have the colour of frosted glass. The footprints of fox paws are clearly visible.
January is sunny and there is almost no snow. They all fly up over the bare fields, the crows, the ravens.
The smallest things cast shadows. A lump of ice, a print of a hoof, a broken branch – everything has a black double. The bark shines under the frozen water.
White, silver and blue engage in a refined mixture providing reality with a question mark.
The stars radiate flickering light. Dogs bark in the vicinity. Perhaps the sounds are circling through the frozen layers of air as a sounding mirage. The frozen space has stored these sounds since last winter, so that can be heard today or in the following century:
Like the light from the stars which died millions of years ago.
Darkness and time – light, fragile substances. The mind is only a match flame in the wind.
dawn to sunset, continuously,
heaven’s prayer wheel
About the writer:
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner worked as an export manager and is now a freelance artist, writer and translator. He holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose. Scmidt-Zorner is a member of 4 writer groups in Ireland. He lives in County Kerry, Ireland, and is proud to be an Irish citizen.