The cottage row sits
squat, snubbing the north east
wind; here is all there
is - the caw of gulls,
long days, low cloud
and the wash of it.
In the fields, time waits;
row of stone, row of barley,
lines that stretch a solstice
to infinity. By low water
your breath is still
and the sweep of waves far out
is rumour of something
breaking; the boom
of surf and bones
that write their names in fathoms.
A living that moved you
to edges and flat landscapes,
your eyes fixed on a movement,
cloud to rainbow, city
to sea. The daub of blue,
yellow, black, a gash
of summer light in that darkness.
4 comments:
I like this poem. Very evocative. Thanks for posting it.
I've just looked at some of Joan Earley's paintings on-line. They are amazing. I'd never heard of her before...sorry for such ignorance. I'm going to find out more. Thanks!
Note typo above on Joan's surname. D'oh!
Thank you SB. Joan Eardley was an English painter who lived much of her adult life in Scotalnd, partly in Glasgow where she painted poor tenement children, and partly in Catterline on the North East coast where she painted wonderful landscapes. She lived in poverty and died tragically early aged 42. She has just had a major retrospective at the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh. The superb catalogue for this, a bargain at a tenner, is a terrific introduction to her work. (see their website for details). I wrote the poem a few years ago after visiting Catterline - an incredibly atmospheric place to which JEs paintings do full justice.
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