Turner

The unfinished works furnish my soul most of all; only time, time itself, has made them fashionable to hang now.

For in this time of plenty, when we have been delivered from all evil, and where we are now free from religion’s spell, we search out our spirituality in others evocations; to be found in their statements on everything, and nothing, to be examined through their portrayal of the escape from the great noise, and their dedication to the relentless pursuit of perfection; in this instance quelled to the calm seas, to the still waters, to the bathing light, that we too might imagine washes the angels.

And these are in a line after the moderns, after the post moderns even; it seems we have travelled full circle, gone beyond the moderns, morphed ourselves back, to the ages of enlightenment.

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Tidying Up

In the courtyard garden a young woman sweeps the leaves
She wears a short sleeve polo shirt, yet I am sure it is December

The wooden seats, and concrete tubs are swept around diligently
The last life of autumn’s falling are cleared from the path

One earring is apparently missing; and so the search begins
A logic is generated that says they ought to be together

I sit quietly, listen to the aeroplanes, in the busy Saturday sky
Photographs of the Queen, and The Queen mother, hang in the conservatory

There is no sign of Prince Philip; the church was bombed in the war
Christians, hotel guests and those seeking peace now populate this retreat

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Temeraire

So now I see you
Indeed
I sit on the beech
To look across at you

Others arrive
A few words are spoken
There are finer hours
Yet this one

It is the one
That you captured
It is the one
We might all remember

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Scottish Songs

Fight
And
Optimism
And
Not all lament
And
Everybody sees
And
Is in a different way

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Breath Of Air

The quiet sea
Is in the next room
Behind the dividing wall
Hidden from my view, as I sit
On this wooden contemporary seat
Listening to whispered conversations
Listening to, meditating; feeling the flow
Of the colder air, from the air-conditioning

One wonders
That it is not sprinkled
With the scent of salt, or the blood
Of mackerel, or the smouldering slag-heaps
Of coal, or the miasma of war, or the shipwrecks
Caught by oil on canvas in the artists London studio

One might also ask
Why do I write, while my
Friends study the paintings
Why do I write, when I specifically
Came here, to be immersed in the art

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