Last night I met the Capital’s captains of Art –
old Nugent Welch with his blue, watercolour eyes,
Colonel Carbery, Mrs Tripe. But Isobel Field
I’m told controls the purse-strings. She was heard to say
she thought me handsome – ‘A pity his work is not.’
This morning I climbed the streets. Paint peeled from boards,
iron rusted, concrete stairways cracked and slipped
and weeds pushed through. Part of me longed for home.
But scent of fennel and this hard unbroken light
on broken branches – they made me see fresh pictures.
From the cable Car I looked down on a tumbling town,
a deep harbour, mysterious glittering hills.
The Colonel, the Tripe and the Field – all were dissolved
in air and light. No it’s not the Promised Land
but a land of promise. I am choked with foolish hope.