Whitstable in June

It was cold despite the promise of sun but I painted on,
Drawn by the boats’ alizarin crimsons and bright cobalt blues;
The waters grey and green and yellow and white splashing tiny mirrors of moving light;
Triangles of old fishermen’s sheds’ roofs black, black, black –zig-zag braiding on a pale blue sky;
Cranes, a soft peachy orange. embroidering the hugger mugger of lorries, crates, boxes, sheds,
The occasional tree; grey concrete swept pristine clean by that cold south easterly.
Done!
Not bad: – colours accurate; perspective okay, hulls and keels proved difficult to portray,
Rigging impossible. Time to meet Kim and pack things away…
Yoick!
That wind yanked the small piece of paper away!
Whisked it over the quay wall and there it lay
Face down on the waters of the fishing port beside a floating plastic bag (not mine).
But not for long…
When I returned, not just with Kim but with Fraser and Robert and Anthony (hurray!),
It had gone, but, reminded me of those cushions of ashes, and the rose petals sinking
Slowly down, floating away, in the waters of the Thames estuary – Mum and Ray.

Such are we: little paintings of a moment in a universal day.
But the painting rose again from my mind in which it lay,
Rose from memory and defeats decay for a while. The power of the mind is a wonderful gift.
God’s mind at play with us everywhere, in every way, God shows us the way.

June 2018