Frontier wilderness, a stepping stone into the silent fray, this incongruous structure stands, like interlaced chocolate bars, waiting to melt or be eaten by the grizzly natives. Back garden or pioneer’s prairie poustinia, the point is the placement; on the edge, before the wilds, set in flailing grasses that bang their heads politician-like on the windows, or in trimmed perfect lawn, it does not matter. Only the quiet and the stillness can be heard, and the world fades.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Am I blazing, as I walk this long forgotten path? Am I on fire for the one I follow and those who will come after? Is this a flaming place, too holy for sandals, where the grass of the field closes over my head and each step is carefully placed for fear of disturbing some serpent, crushing some snail; soil untrod, new and virginal? Am I then, a pioneer, processing out from the centre, a spiral wanderer, heart beating more loudly as the thrum of urban traffic fades away, the edges calling me?
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015