Sunday, 6 February 2011


COASTING  Wendy Webb

Such sky
such air
such light
such ploughed-up mud
all wrenched across
this county,
Spread as manure
or stubble, such
a spread of canvas
fit for chrome,
for Constable’s fine head.
Such Haywain vistas
such a lack of land,
such prodding crows
such seagulls
flocked like sheep.
Such neat, such
ordered mess
of mud imploding
on the car.
Such cruising splashes
mudscreens Turneresque
as smearing earth.
Such Monet light, such
air such sky
such oohs and aahs,
such absent Haystack
stretched across
bare wood.
Such Temeraire, such tug
such barren brush
so rare so gone
as air imploding
light on land

and not a crag
and not a mount
in sight
nor shag of autumn
shadowing inland
nor starlings drifting
gardens, pecking
crumbs of riotous
shades of black.
Not paper shades
nor pastel wash
nor soaked nor
stretched nor taped.
No oohs no aahs
no echoing ravines.
No shades of anything
but air but light
but land but
such bare earth.
Impressions such
as Sunrise
such as sky,
such lily pads
of Monet clods.
Such double-dig
where air and light
and sky breasts
oohs and aahs
of nothing;
not a mountain
on dull sod.

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