| Watercolours by Seamus Patrick | ||
1 The house is quarried from my mind, as from a limestone pit with carbonated bits of mollusks and coral reef, fen-swallowed; nears the highest point north of the rutted lane; sits facing compassed north; its shoulders turned away from the lane; across the back no windows, no door, except the latch-plate for ashes from the stack. The thatch is grey from this distance, the lane? It would be hard to capture, to render— but beautiful too. Sullen brushstrokes would capture that grey. 2 My father paints sailboats, old lorries—bright sails; dim wood sea air-stressed— his palette varies as the water varies from soft to harsh to soft again—but always the Vandykes, yes, always useful. But once—the house, and safe Vandykes glow madly in the marshes, alien creatures land to examine, strange, this portrait, posed oddly face away; who paints it thus? No eyes, no face! Perspective proper, his frame is my frame—in this we paint in the same direction. 3. I worry about many things, but this worries me most, my quarry— a house or painting? Did it ever exist? Did I? Crustaceans float across this marsh in serial columns and colours. Deep they settle upon each other—the mollusks too. Quiet, they are making (did you know there once was ocean here?) a memory of a house as evening comes. It sits facing compassed north, its shoulders turned away from traffic not passing there, from things that will never be. _________________________________________________________________________ SEAMUS PATRICK
wrote the following contributor's note:
|