tracing silence
  • journal
  • about
  • instagram
  • matter
  • subscribe

witherings II / batchwood

13/1/2019

 


‘Each leaf that brushed his face deepened his sadness and dread. Each leaf he passed he'd never pass again.
​They rode over his face like veils, already some yellow, their veins like slender bones where the sun shone through them.’
​
Cormac McCarthy, Child of God, 1973



Comments are closed.
© 2021 Guy Dickinson