I’m waylaid by light-fingered perspectives, culpable
clouds. Landscapes seethe in framed frustration
within the near empty gallery. Oils of the Grand River
surge under sensitive skin, currents that slyly drift
past preservation, depths both shallow and deep.
Banks barely hold supplicant trees, trunks creek-creek
knowing eyes and layers hide orphaned fox cubs,
three sleeping, according to imagination.
There is a moment, a treason moment, when I consider
slipping the art from its pen, shooing it outdoors,
mindless of reason or consequence, as an act
of empathy for boxed, wild strokes, genuine and replete
yet defiant. Paint speaks. Its heartbeat blinds as it
repeats pastoral scenes with the ochre and puce
of distant thunder. I taste wind, smell resistance
in blues while inspiration splays fields prepared for rain,
a dance of wildflowers. Restored by a drowning in
umber, freed from worn floors. Watson’s mossy greens
hum. Gone, blood and bone, from body freed,
for one hour I belong to another’s cherished miles
for one perfect hour I disappear into canvas and linseed.
By Cyndi MacMillan, Nov 20, 2012
For Nette Onclaud's Synesthesia, Inner Body Movement Contest
*Homer Watson (1855-1936) was a Canadian landscape artist. The Homer Watson House and Gallery features many of his works, though his masterpieces are scattered around Canada. To see his painting, Near the Close of a Stormy Day, see the About this Poem link, if you are able.