Between Trafalgar and Waterloo, clouds drift by as the foreground trees stand tall on a slope of the downs with their fans of leaves, all stilled by the brush. On the horizon ridge a single tree and a clump stand out at a distance.

On time’s horizon a woman sits and watches a dance. John Constable seems to stand close by in the wield of his brush around those grey-blue-off-white shifts he favours so much. Unstilled by the freeze of a hogshair tip, the foreground trees at the base of the hill interlink boughs in the sway of Terpsichore’s use of the storm as entre deux guerres continues to moan…

a bird through and through
the frame of the glass
unseen whisper

Diana Webb