I skimmed my eyes over the algae to Flatford
And breathed in Constable’s lungs. Dirty
Clouds and gaps in the treeline rest, obscured by hands
1
2
(And) 3.
Our East Anglian-Indian summer bounced in place
Of water-bound dogs and haywains. Painting in
Pastel over well-revised frondescence and clay. I thought
Forward from my memorialBench to how I might discolour
This moment in more than observation.
As a duck dragged a cool blue seam through
The pond’s green felt, the stillness jumped.
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British writer Sam McDonald is a graduate of the University of Lincoln’s MA Creative Writing course. Previous places of publication include The Raven Review and The Dead Magpie.
