When he set up his easel,
As often before on the hill
Above the Chemin des Lauves,
Clouds gathered over Aix
And storm cones flew.
Cézanne worked on,
Hollowed out his canvas,
Purging light and shade,
Shaped with short quick strokes
The equilibrium of his view.
Within the swirling trees
Tilting planes of ochre
And pyramids of colour
He framed an orange cabanon,
And a door serene and blue.
Then rain began to fall.
Drops ran down his fingers,
Beading brush and canvas,
Dampening midi light
And diluting his bright world.
He bore his easel limping
Down to the Rue Boulegon
But all balance had departed
And a cart brought him homewards
When he stumbled and fell.
Marie summoned his son Paul,
Sent a telegram to wife Hortense
Who shut it away in a drawer
(She had a dress fitting that day
And the words were unclear).
In his penultimate resting place
He felt his final need for colour,
Where were the ten burnt lakes
He’d ordered? And he watched
The door for wife and son
Was it then his vision captured
Thegrey that rules alone in nature?
Did his window pulse with cones,
Horizon tilt to the vanishing point
Where all subjects tended inwards?
©Terry Hodgson2020
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