Hudson took the paintings in themselves
To be the theme. He did not think about
The landscapes they were of or similar
Occasions he had known when longing reached
Around his shoulders like a forgotten friend
And walked with him a space, talking about
The old days when the stream impressed itself
Upon him: cold, baptismal, absolute.
Or when the summer’s haze turned distant hills
To blue, as if to lure his eyes away
From present woes and find their object in
The future, in the undiscovered land.
He did not even think of real trees
Or suns or moons or rivers lit by them.
Nor did he see the stillborn beauty in
His heart, the portent of a coming art,
The lifeless orphans with no end or start.