“the cloud hovers”


Nothing here testifies to the veracity of this scene—
not the intense blue-white sky, not the mountains
disappearing behind each ridge a shade paler
than the ridge before: virulent green, lilac-green, lilac
tinged ultramarine, a pale cyan decorously receding
in Renaissance inspired sfumato

The cloud hovers,
moving by such infinitesimal degrees
the next time I look up from my scurrying pencil
the hovering cloud has split in two:
two ivory-white puffs of frivolity hover one above the other,
above the radiant white horizon line

What of the sudden dart of bird-wing across this still scene?
What of the chirruping, cuckooing, cackling, quacking
(frogs, not ducks, from the neighbouring duck pond);
the buzz of flies, bees, bumble-bees, beetles
and the myriad other unidentified insects
skittering, flying, flitting, scritching

What of the effects of light and shadow, a gathering dusk?
Could not all these result from a sleight-of-hand,
smoke-and-mirrors, a magician’s touch, a puppeteer’s?
The birds are pulled by strings across my line of sight;
the insects’ buzz, the refinement of the musician’s art;
the effects of light, obviously an illuminator’s gift

The whole effect, a sublime instance of theatrical craft,
all of which I heartily applaud—I would rise up to demand encore!
were I not so happily, merrily, comfortably ensconced here,
reclined, recumbent, altogether far too chilled
to do little more than marvel and enjoy the nothing that moves
and the everything that changes


About Francesca Jurate Sasnaitis

Me = Francesca Jurate Kristina Sasnaitis... also known as Jūrytė/ Jūrytėle/ Jūračiuk/ Jurachook/ U-Russia/ Urata/ Rata/ Jay-bird/ Jay-peg/ Miss J/ Big J/ France/ Franca.... Sasna/ Fox/ Greville/ Knight... and Nerada Netis... as far as I can remember... oh, and there's still room for Kristina... somewhere, sometime... Me = drew, painted, made sculpture, then stopped; printed photographs, then stopped; wrote, then stopped; made furniture, then stopped; made prints, then stopped; became a bookseller and stopped; wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... started painting again... sold a few more books... stopped... wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... and now seeing words, writing images... was that last bit too wanky? What goes around comes around, I guess...
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