In the tick of time
Memories plunge back
through the monochrome metronome
of beginnings and endings, and
just in the tick of time
I catch your farewell glance
framed in this defiant stance
of your leave taking.
The pulse of your art
the zinging acrylics greens and blue
the woven dappled light.
The flecked pulmonary leaves
which your freckled hand drew,
from a Spring long ago;
then coaxed morning light on to a fern
so the essence spilled through.
With the flourish of a fescue grass sparkler
you created fireworks in sap green hue.
I am scorched
by the raw burning bend on a sea-gull’s wing;
by its Cleopatra eye,
in its filmy pilgrimage,
as it takes the wave at its height;
the tug of the sea
the bubbles exploding
then draining away at the edge.
Laughter which tinkles
through crystals in grass blades —
tiny silver podded peas
which evaporate in the breeze.
Martins wheel and swoop
as though caught in a creel
anxious to flick our tears through future years
establish trust in that time of flux.
your returning laughter is there
in the blue-green sedge
in the eclipse of the sun
muffled through a concatenation of branches.
You fizzed in this swirly world
with a grip on vibrant energies
which even now haul you into a dark
that slowly dims the sea-gull’s wings.
©Ros Watson 2017
Written in response to Peter George’s workshop on The Four Quartets, taking inspiration from Burnt Norton.
Ros Watson has been a teacher all her working life in the secondary state system and in prisons and in a psychiatric unit before retiring. She and her husband Paul have been converting a barn in West Wales and continue to build around themselves. Freed from full time teaching and family commitments she found time to both write and paint. She is an active member of the PENfro Poets and finds great inspiration in the history and scenery of this area from the sea to the Preselis.