Path to the Orchard
I never owned a horse, But this one touches Whatever it is we mean By ‘heartstrings’, when I see His image, white, alone, Perfected, or a part Of some more complex scene.
So comes the scene I write, A century and ten years gone, When there’s no reason to But odd persuasion.
A trim, white-aproned girl, In matching linen hat, Leads pony Augereau Along a sandy path Against a Waveney stream Reflecting blue. Beyond, Are trees between vignettes Of Suffolk landscape, sky.
The artist plays with white And its intensities. They peak on flowering phlox Along the foreground edge, In touches on the mane, On back and swishing tail, On fetlock, on hat-brim: Brush-strokes of joy, and clear, Cool virtuosity.
And Augereau Clip-clops his path into Heartstrings of centuries.