I try to read between your alla prima strokes.
The sea lulled by the land, singing in indigo,
blue, turquoise, serpentine jade…
The flutter of the origami leaves in silver,
the occasional amber. Crystal rocks saluting
the open sky in Kandinskian chroma.
The trees, metamorphosed dryads,
summon the fleeting wind, humming
their twilight vespers to the distant water
that has carried light across the horizon.
The sun seems asleep, a smile on his face,
his hair rustled by your brush strokes.
The sky erasing memories of clouds,
the hills bleeding in verdant hues. The lime
green grass, a mosaic of your thoughts.
As the day begins to withdraw into darkness,
ghost shades of air haunt the canvas,
disguised in pale blue that rustles from here
and there. Only the sanguine sand is adrift,
poised precariously between the mountains
and the sea. A witching hour sweeps your landscape.
Your meditations in colour, fluid, outlining
shapes in the water miscible inlet. A prayer
to gently rising eternity, the absent moon.
Your organic abstract lacquers the moment,
blends it into pictorial space, the vanishing
point unravelling in lapis blue unveils
an iron age hill fortress, buried in megaliths,
virtually impregnable, but in druid spell and oil paint.
You chronicle a lost epoch in green chartreuse.
And in an emerald womb, time prepares to sleep
in a dolmen covered by the patina of ritual
and lichen, his dreams sinking into the earth’s core.
Cronk Sumark (translated from Manx Gaelic as “Primrose Hill” ) is an iron age hill fort on the Isle of Man. It is virtually an impregnable site, on a steep-sided rocky hillock overlooking the island’s northern plain.