I skimmed my eyes over the algae to Flatford And breathed in Constable’s lungs. Dirty Clouds and gaps in the treeline rest, obscured by hands 1 2 (And) 3.
Our East Anglian-Indian summer bounced in place Of water-bound dogs and haywains. Painting in Pastel over well-revised frondescence and clay. I thought Forward from my memorial Bench to how I might discolour This moment in more than observation.
As a duck dragged a cool blue seam through The pond’s green felt, the stillness jumped.
British writer Sam McDonald is a graduate of the University of Lincoln’s MA Creative Writing course. Previous places of publication include The Raven Review and The Dead Magpie.
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