Mark Dickinson: from 'The Speed of Clouds'
from, section i. A Cloud is Nothing Else: Supersaturate Or Cloud-burst In Dreams
Envelopments unfolding detail a vertical migration in a three-dimensional world, with lattice and a strict canopy filtering out the light to a partial… clarity. Settle of leaf plain slow to timed-out expression. Beneath in reams of sand; blue to cloud; cover as message; a winged god the name of which is perched on the tongues tip goes quivering heights. The moors exposure and the slow lay of a leaf… permeated; Field; and the view that rolls ripple, down crown: Lightening to cloud… Not rupture.
This concave of flatness draws lines to its centre, the hills set out to meet each other, a stretch from beginning. No reach but a stitch of fencing laid length ways down to the sea. No breach, only the rustle of a woven edge, each part renewed to itself, while the light shows what sites before it. These old bent pines-sparse twists under the clouds duration, a thick nested syntax sourced to eye. These lines of direction, these ways amongst, the permeated landscapes of composted matter over time. This one a greying miniature; a cumulus settled in the arc. To which the sentence over reaches like fields traced dimly in twilight.
Returning to the same ground: broken circles splinter white in the bay. There is a small nest of rock with a river and stems from a ubiquitous zero; a heron with an unearthly pause mimetic in view. The land draws shape out of the water plain rising towards - settling in eucalyptus and pine. (We cannot ignore the settlements, earthly dwellings couched in view. But can sit & stare, at a whole that appears as too much an own outside of us.) These fingers scraping into its surface; opening composts of faecal and leaf-litter laid down to a vertical exchange; stratus overhead; ploughed deep-water fields reflecting white-passage on blue.