Thursday, August 14, 2008
My studio faces outwards,
From beneath a thinning grey thatch,
Across a growing wasteland -
Here the illusion of verdant hills,
There stunted olives in an angry haze,
Here overgrown, flower-banked lanes,
There overflowing, foetid drains,
Here streets bulging with drunken song,
There streets emptied of a life long gone,
Here a Red Kite pirouettes without knowing why,
There carrion crows gather in trees, high
Above the smoking fields to count the days
Before the rains arrive to wash this misery away.
The tip of my brush hovers
Uncertain above the landscape,
Willing me to caress
A blue day out of nothingness,
But no matter how deft my touch,
Or how selective is my eye,
No matter how much I try,
There is always redness leaching
Through every crack in the sky.
I have been reflecting how throughout my life there has always been war. I could write a never ending list. At the moment we are doing rather well with at least four wars ( probably more ) going on at the same time and the potential for more to break out at any moment, so I'm going to switch the news off for a while, because my head just can't take it. This image first appeared in the Daily Mirror, which just like the rest of the media, just loves a good war!