Seven wide-faced hydrangeas lean from a vase next to the fireplace. I brought them back from a visit to a friend who is preparing her property for sale. Her son has been clearing bushes and scrub and the detritus of autumn away from the complex stone walls. Smooth cello-shaped rocks have emerged, and the blooms left over from the summer astonish the eye, like exhibits carefully arranged in a gallery. A faint pink rose, with folds of petals cupped inside a thin layer of darker pink. I chose the hydrangeas for their contrasts of colour: from plumdark to lilac and blue-green, all on the same head, like overlapping layers of butterflies. They stood at first in a vase with a little water, absorbing it until it disappeared. Now they have dried out, preserving their colour, each holding a blurhead of movement and stillness.
1 January 2015
The new year started with the sound of rain tiptoeing over glass. I thought about the moon last night in carefree glide across the creamy sky. Today is blank and cloudless, a mirror in a room still uninhabited. The Scots pine playing with the wind, meaning still evolving.