'Forayer' is a series of real and imagined journeys with words woven through visions in ink and colour.

From the depths of a dark winter comes the emergence of a slow spring. 
Like a bird freeing itself from a puddle of oil.
Wings slick and heavy with the weight of the past months.
A shaft of sunlight carves through the early evening sky and down to the window where we all wait, noses pressed against the glass.
First chance we get to leave the circle of the city we’ll take.
Troglodytes loosed upon the burgeoning green of their surrounds.
Free at last we close the door behind us and set foot on the trail that weaves towards the light.

A church bell hangs still in the heights of the tower.
The Pulverturm is a portal.
The walls are the watchmen.
A liminal space where a sacred river flows.
They say Albert The Bear, wandering warmonger and first margrave of this town protected this river.
He cherished the beers brewed from these waters and built the town on their back.
The straightest amongst crooked things they called him.
This is now just a cobbled path through his world to the plateau beyond and we pass swiftly through, the supermarkets and discounters humming softly in the ancient walls of the town.
 

The wind holds the yellow grass in a steady perpetual sway.
Insects floating in fathomless patterns and above clouds rattling over the plain.
The track thins and then arcs behind a bank of green pines, parting the rustling grass and guiding the few travellers across.
The meadow is a season-less place.
Backed by the soft brown and emerging green of the forest and sloping up towards the heath.
Four figures huddled in the folds of the rolling grass are surveying the gateway, time spinning above them into the blue grey of the firmament.

The weather clears momentarily before gathering and breaking over the bruised sand of the Heide in splendour.
Moss dominates.
Hundreds of years ago the trees were cleared and in their place lichens swarm on the sandy soil.
Scrubs and dry shoots break the bottle green.
Rust red swathes the land, deer graze over purple outcrops and through the scarred and broken concrete of old wars.
Cracked and harsh protrusions litter the landscape here.
A snake lies motionless on the warm grey of a bent tarmac outcrop, unmoved by the ever-circling shadows above.
Warnings abound.
Fires have raged over and over this land and the Heide wears the bruises.
The swirl of wind brings with it the suggestion of sound,
but this is now a silent place.