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:

For seven years, I travelled the globe on behalf of my family’s business and had the good fortune to greet more friends than an entire lifetime should offer and the poor fortune to eat more airline food than an entire lifetime should offer.

I continue to write, teach classical Latin and Greek, and model.

I am now contentedly in place in Sydney NSW, where I am generally kept by my wife and numerous cats.



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