Where is that masterpiece at which he laboured
Wherein the lines of landscape and of figures
Concealed an emptiness he tried to fill?
The secret of a nature deep not superficial
Illuminated by an invisible light at centre,
A hollow where the subject is intangible
A truth in depth and not in surface
Which waits in silence for the valid moment
When everything in sight is clasped together.
Each stroke a breath new taken by the world
Which complements the logic of the colours
With sound and scent and thirst to touch the centre
Of which the mountain breathes at evening
And Plato’s cave at morning and midday.
Concavity and convexity of nature
A geometry of thought which rules the shaping,
The hollow waiting deep behind the surface
On which he must unyieldingly shed light.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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