Two Artists at Kilve

Miss May shuffles to the cliff edge,
Unpacks her haversack, arranges her skirts,
Sets out her palette, wash water, brushes,
Lifts her eye-glass, scrutinizes the flora.

Above, stonechats skitter through the blackthorn, 
Across the sea the faint watermark of Wales.
Silt chafes the limestone pavements below,
Cliffs swell from the shallows, 
Their tops masked by mist.

Miss May has eyes only for a solitary thrift.
Poised neatly, she picks her colours,
Rose madder, the palest wash of gamboge.
Delicately pointing her brush,
She dips into her water, begins.

Late afternoon, clouds have bunched, 
The wind swung round. 
Adding the final speck of emerald, 
Miss May leans gently back.
A discreet smile … exquisite! 

Returning for tea with friends,
Boots scuffed, cleavers garnishing her skirts,
She sits nursing her cup.
Fussy and finicky, she is gently mocked.
Will you soon be choosing 
A single-hair brush, dear Clara,
To perform preposterous feats of virtuosity, 
Capturing each individual anther, style, and sepal?
And to what conceivable end?
Miss May conceals a smile.

A shout.
Now, it must be NOW.
Elbowing a field labourer,
Turner scurries along the cliff path,
His top hat, snatched by the wind,
Tossed seawards.

Dropping his bag in the grass,
He heads to the cliff edge,
Trampling the thrift.
Fumbling for paints and brushes,
His eyes search the shifting sky.
Jags of light spear the shallows,
Dark shadows flicker across the cliffs.
Energy, the universe in motion.
He must be quick.

A daubing of madder
And Vandyke brown, 
Frenzied strokes slicing the colliding colours. 
Impatient, he hurls his brush aside,
Smears the paper with splayed fingers.
Dragging a rag from his pocket
He wipes and smudges,
Fingernails scoring the stew.

Then, falling prone on the grass,
Laughing out loud,
He bangs the ground with his fist.
Onwards.