Mary MacRae
At Varengeville
All is horizontal here, there is no depth
In sea or sky or clifftop, only the flat
Blue of the sky which meets the blue of the sea
Step out and you would not know flying from falling -
Convex from concave - just this nacreous skin
And the thin line of the shimmering churchyard between.
Apart from the black polished slab where Braque lies
Everything is the colour of air, the mosaic bird at his head
Extends its wings in hailstones of solidified space.
And air has stained the glass in the church; he planted
The tree of life and light charges it, passing
A current of blue through earth, sea and sky.
A gull tips tumbling to the wrinkled water,
The herring’s silver scales flash in the sun.
Page(s) 33
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