Hasty charcoal sketches of a cold, foggy December night walk.
Through the night, I had Walter de la Mare’s poem, ‘Silver’, playing in my head like some haunting chant, and so it runs through these drawings as well.
I realise how incongruous some of the images are with the words scribbled across them. If you try very hard, they make… sense. Or perhaps they lend a hand in binding it all together?
I don’t know; I just drew what I saw.