I Painted the North Shore on Sunday

I painted the north shore on Sunday.

Bare, the leaves had all gone

for I was here too early.

Having never been early in life, I concluded

I must be here at the wrong time.

But then, my reason for being anywhere in time,

even the wrong time

was never quite clear to me.

Catching the north shore when no one wanted it

gave me a privilege no one had.

They haven’t seen you like this

in the waiting.

They haven’t seen me like this,

in the in-between.

Perpetual plenty perforates pleasure,

turning the extraordinary into the ordinary.

There must be nothing first, bare.

I painted the scene before the harvest, before the fruit.

I am the north shore

and the south one too,

changeable as the wind that glides over

stones before the leaves arrive,

taking life in seasons of anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Wanting and waiting, slowing down time in grey paintings

laughing when life is fruitful again

in the right way

in the right season.

The north shore looked empty today,

so I painted it.