2018

I am painted by a minor Dutch master whose name is only known as a Flemish squiggle. Low clouds could evaporate or lift the wings of varnished geese. Wind-sails part a low-land mist. I will send the black dog. Pheasant and grouse fly up each feather intense with hindsight. This is a New Year’s Eve poem, yet I can’t remove the Flemish windmills, the black dog, the shotgun, the marshy landscape. I will roll up the old canvas, hawk it around, barter it for some new boots. Windmills will keep turning the sky. Frames will keep breaking free of walls. Clothes for the artist: an old bush hat, a long canvas coat, borrowed from a gallery of yellowing landscapes. New brown buckled boots. I'll go looking for red swans in the sunrise, though I won't call the words that. I will splash forward following the dog's quick nose.