On a recent brisk afternoon I took my dad on a walk by Hallock's Bay. In the sand halfway to the point lie bricks, rusting iron bars, & bits of glass and ceramic--remnants of a house that once lived by the water. We wondered quietly who the people might have been. When did they hang to dry their final line of laundry or wash their last dish? My dad went off on his own for a while, then returned with the items in this painting.
Although the poem by Kay Ryan that follows could be the theme for "wrack line," I thought of it quite strongly on this day.
Chop
The bird
walks down
the beach along
the glazed edge
the last wave
reached. His
each step makes
a perfect stamp--
smallish, but as
sharp as an
emperor's chop.
Stride, stride,
goes the emperor
down his wide
mirrored promenade
the sea bows
to repolish.
3 comments:
There is no doubt but that Kay Ryan speaks to your work, and you to hers. You have but 25 to go, now, and I intend to savor every one, to the "glazed edge/the last wave/reached."
I'm sure you've looked up Henry Alcock. Just in case you haven't, see below. Our fragment -- so beautifully represented by your exquisite brushwork -- was manufactured sometime around 1891 when "England" was added to the imprint.
I love this special painting...and you.
http://www.thepotteries.org/mark/a/alcock_henry.html
How beautiful.
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