Wind bitten, brittle with scree, it fulfilled
itself a time lag ago balancing Pole star in
stage set infinity beyond: in the cycle of its
decline it plays with perspectives painters
need: a motif shifts never quite enough as
Cezanne in repetition knew: a mountain’s
emblematic grip on rigour; the long game.
Somewhere hard sounding where they do groupie spliffs
there’s a hang of pippins on one winter tree; down stage
a not so savvy pigeon morphs to a rosy tint on fogged up
screens; around rush hour Turner’s inventing test piece
foundation sky, jazzing up the canvas with pippin flares
fidgeting spliffy clouds: sky looks good, Turner knows it
paints it into river which camps it up and makes the day.
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