A Studio in East Hoathly
It’s a high step up, his studio’s tread,
solid after my slip on loose-stoned land;
no ducking, the glass door, open ahead:
Here, picture-galleried, engravings hang:
Mono-chromed eye-lined echoes of Wealden,
always stood readied, each wide-view he tries,
creation, he and God, repeat often:
Thousands of hair-thin, tooled-in, lines.
The artworks, furrowed like brow-knotted deets,
(as stacked signs, writ in pub-traded paints,
sit ignored, under hand-printed sheets:
His reminders of past-worked complaints).
The tools: spitstickers, scorpers and stippling:
Palm-packed stitching, he knocks into blocks,
but before the studio’s unlocking,
ne needs ideas, to deep-furrow, like God.
Sketch of subjects: Inked towns and crossed hills,
now traces capture, over close-grained face;
sights inverted: wide landscapes re-milled,
hand-tools, bench-readied, obligation’s trace.
His art, aligned true by encompass of love,
is guiding straight, each wood-fuelled thought:
Fixed in boxwood’s grain his scabrous shove,
this is the artist: my verse-lines have sought.