My Apologies to John Constable, Tate Gallery, Ferlane, East Bergholt (1817)

London, 1999

 

Oh the fences they hold true,

wandering through heavy woven forests of tree roots

to pastures of sunken vegetation

along dirt roads nestled in overcast shadows,

as a family picnics, or so it would appear.

A rejoice of sorts if only you were still here.

I see your silhouette appear and reappear,

the wind etching your likeness

upon each cairn that dots pastoral.

 

The walking path becomes overwhelmed by sunlight.

Perhaps you are still working in the fields,

Your wind-burned and calloused exterior

holding rough rooted abhorrence in your lowered brow.

You remain sanctified and unpolluted,

piling sun bleached stone upon sunken roots,

the dark shadows solidified in foreground fate.

 

Oh how your canvas womb gives heartless birth.

Thrice mangled memories,

of dark French roast in an earth tone demitasse

and crumpets served slightly charred on the veranda

on a chipped porcelain Victorian saucer

with only a faint shade of lavender along its edge.

 

As the dark brown stain in the once white silk tablecloth

glowers through the prongs of your tarnished silver fork,

You stare across the table

at the emptiness of the once filled bookcases.

 

I realize that your only genuine notion of remorse

is in the severed piece of an antique plate.