Elizabeth Beaton-II

Four Seasons Scroll

 

 

Mist rolling into mountains

Mountains into fields

Fields into the half-smudged tops

Of trees crooked by wind.

 

Light and shadow, ghosts of lines:

A dance. The paint flees.

I search for you in the forms

Of sleeping stone, and find you

In the empty space at the feet

Of two peaks.

 

Clouds part, and hillsides

Mirror infinity

With a shower of sun.

 

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