The painting of light build its own canvas,
The needed impression,
And communicates only what you see.
Make of it whatever you will.
Those sacramentals on the table,
Pickin’s for the grieving family,
Some unworn watches, car boot sale bargains,
The oil painting of home in Ireland from Uncle Jim,
A funny plate, from a holiday in Cornwall.
All sacramentals now,
To be spread amongst others,
Or saved for another such event,
30 years from now.
As his children set the dining room table again.
For another semi-colon in an eternal sentence.
The path on this seashore seemed familiar,
The walk from the Welsh village contained all the characters from Undermilk Wood,
Yet, none came from their houses,
Making this our own set, and not surreal at it seemed.
Her hand firmly clasped in a grip of 37 years,
No mans land in marriage, yet as perfect as the first days,
Only better now because we know each other,
And that we didn’t make the right choice.
But rather God did.
The Welsh weather keeps our skin perfect,
Never too much sun, but when it comes, a little wind to douse it’s affect,
So as not too feel too warm,
And then changing to overcast,
As shadows dance over the coast,
Creating sunbeams, and shadows, and images,
Only to be apprehended by an imagination, or a paparazzi camera.
Yet yearning for Gainsborough, Constable, or some Hudson River artist to daub it, and capture it forever.