There is a dark heart

that beats

in your shadows,

double time, occasionally

skipping

and the pulse

oozing a venom

that does much to remove any trace

of humour, sarcasm or the fine

art of gilded laughing;

I despair at the thought

of the Constable

and the modern Haywain

sitting in the bleached over

life dictated by

the divine and the blessed

hand shakes

in Time,

through Time

and across the backs

of those who know nothing more

than veneration.

There is a dark heart,

the hay is burnt

and Constable

has no imagination

of how to paint you…

but I can…

 

Ian D. Hall  2016