From the Whalers Sketchbook
the stain on my desk looks exactly the same
as this, full of weather and fish, the Turner which some say
is unfinished, though so what, the paperís edges hem
in a spilled sunrise, which filters through cracks
in the clouds, for those brush strokes, one canít be sure
of their status, suggesting a shore, of sisal or straw, best
likewise, where the real sun is, parhelions,
and ships obscured by artifice, just stains, one maelstrom,
this Turner of the third and final phase
is about keeping some marvels hidden,
those whose formlessness, devoid of gurnards and john dorys,
threatens us without a frame,
just like my desk stain, which is almost perfect.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Patrick Wright
would be pleased to hear them.