MORNING DECLARATIONS

Blackbird, wren and robin proclaim territories

in measured soundings, soon amplified

by thrush, chiffchaff and great tit.

It is as if a wall of whoops and calls,

of trills, melodies, crescendos,

fortissimos and diminuendos

contribute to a magnificent fortification.

By breakfast things are less intense,

the bird antics reduced to a skimming and shimmering

on the bare branches of the lilac tree in Cousins’ garden.

In the kitchen there is a stand-off of a different kind,

just beginning. More wrangle than theme and variation…

The elder sits, her weak blue-eyed gaze

holding strong across the table…

My territory, my jurisdiction, it says.

It is a battle royal, almost invisible, certainly undeclared,

as the two of us – old enough to know better –

sit in a silent pandemic face-off

across a landscape of marmalade and toast.

SEGUE II

I

A newspaper image draws me in –

burnt palms in California – Paradise lost.

They have held their shapes, these trees,

like centurions guarding devastation,

defiant. I am here, they utter,

despite all, still standing.

The work that follows is painted,

though punctuated by photocopied palms.

II

Energy vibrates. The pictures grow –

wilderness pieces – reminding me

of the boy I knew who fished to save his soul.

How well he understood

the different pace of Nature –

how wild places pulse…

Brushstrokes lick across canvas, spreading –

as all the while parched earth burns,

Amazon, Australian Bush, Alaska…

I paint with scary venom, soften it then,

with seeds and backdrops of leafy tendrils,

riches past, future aspirations.

III

Lockdown. I look to the garden, then beyond,

past the cultivated spaces of my urban life,

to tales of feral apple forests in Kazakhstan,

to black apples of Tibet (how dangerous that fruit!),

or to twisted mangroves at the verges,

and whole worlds in deep caverns…

Watch a programme about keynote predators

and scientists who could advise on how to save the world,

by understanding the rules.

Then back to the garden.

Still the virus spreads like fire,

threatening all.

IV

In my closed world I become witness

to the first uncurlings, the upward stretches,

green shoots from seeds sown.

See the life force of growing things,

delicate and fragile, yet strong,

soon to start a Wilderness of my own.

HOLDING FAST

From the first stirrings of intent,

you glance upward to clear skies overhead,

outwards too, to sun-cast shadows on a light grey door.

Dressed in old clothes, faded and stained,

you go to the studio,

turn the radio on – leave Lyric to find the song –

decide on pigment, brushes, medium, then dive right in

to the first painting of the day – Island of Cobalt Pools,

Waves to Shore, or Going through, 

whether you like it or not.

Afterwards, the ritual of cleaning – the swirling

of brushes in white spirit, then soapy water

until the ferals shine, hands too, scrubbed.

Despite your best efforts though, a rim of blue remains,

traces of life and loss and hurt, still buried

in the cracks.