Rust and Fire

Associations with the farm. The back then farm, not the one now. The fire of the evening light like that of the swing’s first kiss. Where have the owls gone to roost? Do they remember us? They did then – just there, chasing bugs in the lamp light rather than the carcasses of memory now. Galloping across wind swept fields and wine on wonky wooden walkways. It is the place where pianos were played in courtyards – stretching your arms out to waltz with the whistling wattles. It is the place of people. The people who remember then and wait on what is to come. They are the believers, because they have been there. As the light draws aft of the day – we sit quietly to listen to the stories as they are read to put the past to sleep. Then stoke those fires and watch the boilers breathe – because by God, all the orchestras are poised for the beat of that baton – a cry to make the plains of Jerusalem call Saladin to seat. It is coming, it is coming – the time to stop the night.

Original Oil on Canvas SOLD
1.5m x 1m
Unavailable in print

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