Wednesday, 28 February 2018

Experimenting with more words and images

Window


The day passes quickly
With snow this morning melted now
And sun moving towards the DX -
It reaches in through the afternoon window of the thinking room
It moves from east to west
Or from left to right
Hides first behind the pines
Then the edge of Allt-Ty- Grug

February sun is low in the sky
So low it highlights the texture of this page
My wrinkled hand
And the threadbare hair upon it

Every day it ticks past this window to the clock's hands
Whether I live here or not
I grasp the day though
And love the way the back lit paintings on the sill come alive

I love the size of this sunny window
And the way it warms the room and my older bones
I see sparks of light
And cultivate a whole forest of ideas in my armchair
As this earth's day continues its flight
Through the eternal air


Now to translate this into a painting.

Tuesday, 6 February 2018

Yellow Hill



On the yellow hill there are no memorials
But set before it are fractured hollows where stone should be
And in the ruins and tramways stand the quarry men's houses
Where there are voices that we cannot hear

Nails in boots on cobbles
The dust and toil
The hail, wind, rain and snow

This is the place where voices would have been heard
They would have been here mixed with steam and hammer blows and furnaces
Cranes, shovels, tuns

The birds would have seen the capped heads of men
Iron wheels and oiled hands

Now they see the yellow hill
The curling grasses
And grazing the empty land - sheep, ponies, cows
And a man with a dog
Scribbling.


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An idea for another painting is formulating.

Paul.