yet the brown bird would follow

when i saw this painting i was deeply taken by the expression on the young girl's face

and then by how she has her arms folded carefully in front of her.

it's a considered and meditative pose.

i've only seen it elsewhere in the mevlevi dervishes

as they begin their turning.

consider and meditate on the words of mary webb posted below the painting.

imagine that these words are inside the experiencing of this girl in the moment of this painting.

little miss prim frederick brown

the wood

tall, feathered birches, on the tides of air,

wash to and fro, like seaweeds fine and fair,

and deep in leaf and blossom from all eyes

the ropewalk of the honeysuckle lies.

there, crimson foxgloves taper slenderly,

and the brown-seeded brake grows ten feet high.

there are strange, flaming toad-stools, and the berries

of ash and rose, that shine like scarlet cherries.

the rose-bay willowherb, in her bridal hour,

bloom, and the larch sets forth her rosy flower.

kestrels are there, and tawny foxes play

amid the shadows in the early day

low cry the sheep, and leave their shining fleece

on the long vines of purple blackberries.

high in their minstrel gallery above,

hidden in fretted leaves, dove answers dove,

and like a distant bell, melodiously

haunting these glades, the music of the bee

chimes all the summer . . . like a bird, with wings

dusky and silent, i would flit through spring's

wistful, immaculate colours; through the dream

and hush of summer; down the rush and gleam

of autumn; and when winter, with a moan,

swept through the freezing wood aloof, alone,

prisoning the pine needles in shining, hollow

cases of ice, yet the brown bird would follow.

light as a last year's leaf I'd flutter by,

with the sad note of finches in july.

still would the foxgloves gather, spring by spring,

till should the feathered birches wash and swing

upon the tides of air, and in the sun

each autumn should the little foxes run,

while I in shadow dwelt. dark on the sky

should kestrels anchor, watching warily

for small brown birds: but in the meadow green

i'd fearless flit, beneath their gaze unseen.

mary webb from "the collected work of mary webb - poems and the spring of joy"