Another View

By | 1 May 2020

Landscape and jacaranda — Grace Cossington Smith

Is she sitting?
Or is she standing?
In the open air.

No, she is sitting.
Her eyeline lifts towards
the flowering.

The sun is behind her
but I cannot see
her shadow on the grass.

Time of day is strange.
It could be almost any time.
It is overcast.

Within reach of the house
within which she lived
the most of her life.

Are there footsteps in the hallway,
a clattering, a chinking
in the kitchen?

But she tinkers on. I am imagining
a foldaway canvas stool.
A palette.

Today the very day
the jacaranda begins to slough
her purple mantle.

Every profligate year
until it might as well be
this year as hereafter.

There the sudden slope of doubt
that falls away
into the unforeseen.

Nothing ever quite comes off,
nor should it.
Mountains looming.

I am standing at the tip of that slope
looking back at you,

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