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Will they recall
How in the ‘Thirties photos colour-tinted
Gazed at from cushioned, broad compartment seats,
Faded from suns of far-off seaside treats,
Were taken down, deposed by wonderfully-printed
Landscapes worked by the brightest of trained men
Who only asked ten pounds a sheet back then?

Quiet, noble work...
Who in these latter times could ever hope to match
The oeuvres of Badmin, Squirrell, Hilder, Steel
Whose evocations caused the heart to feel
That underlying our old shoddy batch
Of hackneyed landscapes dwelt a realm so fit
That one who cared might care to die for it?

I see them now,
Sequestered from our days, their world so pure:
A Durham scatheless on her craggy flanks,
Kelso embowered by old Tweed’s bright banks,
Trinity Court, ancient, august, secure;
Rievaulx so picture-perfect in her dales,
And Abergele in the dusk of Wales.

They tell a truth -
One not reserved for existential eyes.
Their seat is deeper-driven, set apart.
In them we glimpse the Avons of the heart;
An actual Cornwall blows beneath their skies.
Who will discover in a latter age,
That rooted place, that shrugged-off heritage,

Or glimpse half-dozing from that slick express
The secret path that winds to Lyonesse?

© Colin Bailey, June 2010