No one is hopping in a painting by Hopper,
not a single rabbit is at play
in a room where a woman in a slip
sits on a bed and stares at the hotel floor.
And no one is at ease in a painting by Bosch
unless howling in a cauldron of boiling oil
with a spear through your head
is someone’s idea of contentment.
But here in Constable’s airy landscape
Boat-Building near Flatford Mill
a calm sense of peace and purpose prevails.
By a stand of summer trees,
the tiny boat-builder is bent to his labor
in a wide trench dug for the work.
The boat’s wooden frame rests
on a cradle of rough-hewn beams.
A smooth English river flows blue
in the background. How smart he was
to be building his boat nearby,
in the light of a calm, cloud-filled sky.
All of which has left me
on this stormy day to imaging my life
as a simple man building his own boat,
not necessarily near Flatford Mill,
but somewhere fairly far away
from the silent rooms of this house.
There, I would speak with the quiet
authority of a nineteenth-century boat-builder.
Villagers would know me by my apron
and the special hat of my trade,
and once in a while, some boys
from the village would come out
to watch me building my boat
then out of youthful boredom
would point and mock my efforts
and hit me in the head with an apple core,
which makes me wonder if you
are ever getting out of bed this morning
so we can have some eggs and toast
and figure out what to do with our Sunday.