Walk in the forest
Yesterday I walked on the wet trail covered in brown leaves like scales. The rain pecked the path, forming tiny craters of gray clay, immediately closed. The trees were probably surprised to see such a reckless walker in such weather, they bent their branches over me like old friends who close their eyes.
And the smell of wet wood rose from the ground, penetrating each bed of moss, each piece of bark, each tuft of heather... shy mushrooms were emboldened to colonize a carpet of humus, well sheltered.
My scattered thoughts clung to the tiniest details of the landscape and flowed in light drops through my veins before disappearing. I hurried on, without really knowing why, as if I wanted to go over time, when a ray of sunlight flooded the clearing.
So I stopped for a moment. I breathed like I never had before, in great gulps, I drank the damp air until I was drunk. Then I sat on a diseased stump with devastated roots. On the horizon, a veil of pink mist enveloped the last rays of the setting sun. I was fine…
(c) Fabrice Roy 2010
Dans ses conférences d'histoire de l'art, Fabrice Roy conjugue le passé au présent, dans une évocation poétique et ludique du 19ème siècle français...
