When you’d dealt your painting your word
Had nothing to the scope of the victory,
And the grace you had was left, buoyant and
Sad by the rush of the same ocean wrong-sided
To your old and real Home, and somehow
You couldn’t have caught the grief or the guilt
Like you couldn’t have shame from whence born.
But then you return again, and it’s by the lush
Fortunate colours, synthetic or restored;
By the progeny you complete and offer
The lashing drench – image of that black spiked
Sweated hair, hands thin grappling –
But oh the complications were there by
A kinship you should seek to found,
If not make your ode to by violent and eventual death.
Copyright © Harrison Abbott 2015
I currently study in Aberdeen as an undergraduate, writing regularly as a serious hobby. My Tumblr account may be found here : https://www.tumblr.com/blog/h-j-linklater-abbott.