This morning I was
stalking reading some of my favorite lovely blogs. My friend Gerry wrote a brilliant flash piece as a response to Brenda Warren’s Sunday whirl. I read the word list and looked at the paintings in my bedroom for inspiration. In the group is a oil painting in the school of Turner; a copy of his 1839 The Fighting Temeraire, done by a pupil, L Franks, bought at auction by my British father years and years ago.
This is it:
The Last Voyage
You and I sit beneath the leaves of the giant willow by the river on a sleepy summer evening. We look out into the distance, past the hills, to the bluff where the last evening corona paints dreams in shapes of yellow and orange and gold on the clouds. All sorts of vessels drift up and down the river in their sleep. We see one ship, a white and gold decaying ghost. The ship is being pulled in complete surrender by a rusty, restless tug. The tug trembles as it struggles with the weight of the knowledge of what its burden is.
Our thoughts entwine like tendrils as they spiral down into the watery realm down into the depth of history and the river. Holding hands we follow them and look up from our world of hazy light to see the white ship pass above us. Reaching up we caress her hull. We brush off some snails crawling underneath the timbers seeking her shade. A nail releases and sinks down to the bottom. Our gaze follows the nail as the white ship floats past. There we find the union flag flying over the stones and mud of the riverbed. We look around our new world of floating reflections and shifting shadows leaving the other vessels to float on by in the drowsy evening light, unmindful that we were ever there.