John and Mary a small version of the narrative paintings with a parallel poem

narrative painting with poem

narrative painting with poem

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My view

My river view is like a mirage
in the cultural desert of suburbia
suspended floating, I blinker out
the neat lawn below my window
trimmed edges the suburban compulsion
to hem nature in, massacre trees.
I ignore the plastic moulded boats
with garish colours
and focus on the rippling flow
of ever changing hues, sky
and trees reflected, an endless play
of shifting shapes
a dance of light on the water’s way.

The Geese

Their honking cry is heard
before I see them, large unwieldy
on the grass
The male regards the domain
his long neck erect eyes alert
The hen calmly devours grass
fresh from the tidal surge.
I smile to myself glad they return
despite my neighbours’ hostility
An hour slips by, both still there
Good I think, this is their home.
Then I hear a commotion, honks
flapping wings, a man is running
with a stick towards the geese
He throws a stone too, missed –
Thank God. The birds escape
onto the river, indignant, confused
by this aggression.
They will be back, I know and
they know, this is their home.
At night I hear their calls
When settling on the pontoon
safe in the darkness.

WILLOWS WEEPING 2010-2014

Many years have passed

since i was entranced

by your golden shimmering branches

mirrored in the rippling river

now damaged and depleted

by fungus, wind and human hand.

But how glorious you were!

And i was driven to reproduce

your splendour with my paintbrush.

Now you’re damaged and depleted

by fungus, wind and human hand.