from Morning Song… for Martin Battye
Behind the eyes, behind the glass, beyond the horizon
of the visible is plain and simple light, the fire and smear
of colour suffused with its own luminosity, its sense of self.
And there you stand at the very centre of it, blazed, lit,
blown, by the world in which you find yourself, alone
in the middle of Monet’s field, of Seurat’s riverbank,
of a lusciousness, you may dive into or luxuriate in.
So the world moves, you say. So it shimmers at noon,
So it offers its prospects as through an open window…
George Szirtes September 2018