Casting an eye over this landscape of ugliness, slaughter and grief, and the insane psychological nightmares of what is now known as ‘culture; no vista offers a tranquil view as balm for such an unholy mess. One might still, nevertheless, raise that eye to a place undisturbed by this destructive carnage. For the sky still looks down as once it did on England’s green and pleasant land; displaying its daily minor dramas as of yore, serene and unaffected by man’s inhumanity to man.
Two outrageous daubs occur against the blue
Incongruous afterthought in puffs of white
Amidst those airy forms of darker hue
Drifting as two spirits taking flight.
While sinking to its rest the sun’s last light
Was cast beneath the clouds and brightly shone
With reddish tinge foretelling of the night
Each moment changing; briefly here and gone.
But now this stately progress is undone
Some Master painter clears his whitened brush
Two careless daubs reflect this setting sun
A pair of strangers stalk the evening hush.
As if some god made surreal marks in jest
Serenely contradicting all the rest.
Pic Nick Victor