Of cities of fog and winter fevers, I
Send this to remind you of personal islands
For which Gauguins sicken, and to explain
How I have grown to learn your passionate
Talent with its wild love of landscape
It is April and already no doubt for you,
As the journals report, the prologues of spring
Appear behind the rails of city parks,
Or the late springtime must be publishing
Pink apologies along the wet, black branch
To men in overcoats, who will conceal
The lines of songs leaping behind their pipes.
And you may find it difficult to imagine
This April as a season where the tide burns
Black, leaves crack into ashes from the drought,
A dull red burning, like heart's desolation.
The roads are white with dust and the leaves
Of the trees have a nervous, spinsterish quiet.
And walking under the trees today I saw
The author wants Harold Simmons, his former teacher, to recognize that even though he maybe thrilled to finally have warm weather again, his family back home is having a hard time dealing with drought.
To a Painter in England for Harold Simmons