Five men, in orangey yellow overalls,
using long handled rollers are painting
the paddling pool – which is the size of four
tennis courts – that blue which only colour charts
show or astronauts will see. Beyond
is the limestone headland with rock-roses
amongst the scrub and fulmars nesting.
Far out to sea is a gathering,
stately and serried, of white, wind turbines.
I think of David Hockney’s iconic pools,
and of Robert Rauschenberg’s ‘Combines’ –
hybrids of sculpture and paint – and his ‘Jammers’ –
unvarnished poles and coloured canvas.
Uniformed artisans – artificers
of the imagination – these painters
each year layer this surreal blue. Sea water
fades it, and tiny feet.
David HockneyLlandudnoRobert Rauschenberg
Alan Horne
September 1, 2018This is great, David. The best poems about manual work generally seem to be about rescuing workers of the past from obscurity, while more are pure nostalgia. This is neither. I especially like the changes of focus in the first stanza. Also, thanks for the reference to Rauschenberg, of whom I was ignorant.
Hugh Powell
September 4, 2018The mention of colour reminds me of William Carlos Williams. So much depends on swimming pools and wheel barrows!