2nd September 2020
He should be painting!
On this dry calm morning, everything ought to be out:
Scrapers, filler, sandpaper, primer, undercoat, gloss –
He should be busying with all these things,
Because autumn is coming.
He should be winning back window years
From the flaking neglect of friendships and gardening,
Of eclectic but important research, of beachcombing,
Of occasionally, once more, smallbeer pub visits–
And, indeed, of poetry.
He should be painting; but no.
Instead, today
He has,
At The Sun’s unclouded command,
Gone painting.
He has heavy-backpacked his way
Down to a long-contemplated view;
He’s set up easel and canvas, put out his palette’s colours,
Selected brushes, sleeve-shined his knife, tilted hat against sun:
Time to face Art’s so-welcome frowny challenge again…
How, upon a blank rectangle,
To make of this ephemeral inspiration something lasting?
To please someone miles afar, maybe never met?
To inspire them not once on first seeing but ever after too,
By playing just a bridge hand of spectrum-spread pigments?
© Christopher Jessop 2020
