In the middle of the night I was woken by Little Owl stirring in her sleep. Our bedroom seemed strangely luminous and the curtains were haloed by an outside light. I peeked out and everywhere was glowing white. Snow was falling softly and the full moon had come out from behind a cloud, illuminating the scene. The world looked surreal in the bright silence. I’ve spoken before about those moments when nature let’s you in on one of her precious secrets and this was one of those times. You hold your breath and marvel at these luxuries that are beyond the reach of the most prestigious of shops to sell.
This morning everywhere was deep in snow. Little Owl and I waved Big Dreamer off as he trudged up the track with our next door neighbour to choose a Christmas tree from the farm.
Apologies that the illustration I’ve posted today isn’t very Christmassy or cheerful. I wanted to put this one up because it was assessed yesterday for college. It pairs with the image I posted before from the Wilfred Owen poem Anthem for Doomed Youth. This one quotes another line from the poem, “the shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells.” The faces are inspired by Maori war masks. I find it interesting how war masks often look slightly ridiculous, even comic. It adds an air of crazed irrationality to a scene that seems to work to make it even more terrifying. The idea of the irrationality of war was certainly a concept Owen explored in his poems. The typography is supposed to reflect that of a telegram that a family member might receive on the news of the loss of a loved one. I wanted it to convey the utter failing of words in the face of such horror.
