Turner Country Poem by Martin Ward

Turner Country

Churchyard lichen
cling impasto
to the canvas
of his grave.
Kate joined him
fifty-five years later.
Derbyshire's Constable
rests incognito.

The Barley Mow, Kirk Ireton,
to Cliff Ash Cottage, Idridgehay:
a pretty place to end your days.

Turner Country.
Seismically shifted here:
George from Barrow-on-Trent;
son William Lakin to Barrow-in-Furness.
Both found love a second time around
and threw their easels out of their prams,
like grown-up children do.

Genii, genetically crafted,
lived here, left here,
stayed here in body,
soul or spirit.
Occasionally, a canvass
of this Derbyshire Arcadia
comes up, singing with their DNA
that echoes in the valley.

This small part, in no part second-best.
So many masters have come: the other Turner too.

Love binds together and divides
sons and lovers; artists, poets and rustics.

Stand upon Alport Heights
and feel the spirits in the wind
swirl and call for ashes to be cast.

I like to think that I've played my part:
bringing together father and son,
whose temperamental talents
hang once more, side-by-side.