I would take this wooden seat to look upon, at the Cottages of Connemara, I would read that the brush strokes elude to a rural life, at the foot of the mountains
I would write, as you looked on, while I tried to satisfy my intellect; yes I would claim for Frances Danby to also be the Earl of Derby, the painter of Vesuvius Rising
I would think Paul Henry could be Cezanne, each day to sit with coloured shower, each day to sit with shades of french grass, as if the meditation unceasingly continues
I would desire the gift to be able to explain to you, of moments passing that reflect hollow, and enormous, on the moors that passed, as if the partaking of the all of love
I would post the postcard’s words, of all those people years, pulled and strung together, as the rosary beads on the older woman’s chair
