Before the bushfires, Covid and mice invasion. A golden time.
Photo from the coach by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Another leftover poem from my series a couple of years ago.
a word for dappled light seen
under, or through trees.
The Impressionists caught it
in flickering strokes,
or in Pointillist pixels.
shielded them from nystagmus.
Wide-brimmed hats stilled the dancing
Yet the bare-headed shimmer
and they scintillate
with the mirage of brief youth
Van Gogh’s Olive Trees with the Alpilles in the Background, MOMA. Wikimedia
One leap! I achieved immortality.
Those flickering olives absorbed his eye.
I chose my sticky end mortality.
He was focussed on that Provencale sky.
The Dutch would use my forebears as a trope:
insect as memento mori (foreground)
but into his painting I interlope,
en plein air, in one bold cicadic bound.
Over-looked for more than a hundred years
by many an art critic, with eye glass,
in the same way as Vincent’s own ideas
were unacknowledged by that dealer class,
now we have received our recognition.
In his painting, I made my impression.