Nothing for July
It rained too much,
the Martins nest’s washed out,
cats got sick. and
no-one passed me close,
disturbed my dust-particles.
So nothing for July.
Truthfully
I was away ten days,
missed the worst
floods and such,.
hit bliss until I burst.
My boy, my son,
one of my treasured mates
met me off the plane.
I guested in the States.
Boston, my favourite artist
Singer Sargents second home,
mine too, and New York,
Marthas Vineyard for the light.
an inspiration I would sight
as better there than anywhere.
It’s August
I’m in England, the sun is back
painting hard and in a flow.
the dust’s still here, but I don’t care.
Corn’s cut, rape seed all gathered in
square bales stand tall
on scarified hills, shape shadows
long at sundown.
Some slender from tall trees
reach over a field deep
across ochre land,
roughly shorn like sheep.
Beneath my brush’s strike
I’m small, wet, soft and
yielding to the papers level depth.
Soak up the coloured view
and ripen in August’s golden heat.