I was in Aberystwyth a couple of weeks ago and as I’ve done when there before, went to see an art show at the local arts centre. The show was of photographic work produced by an artist called
Pete Davis. Here’s the first piece I’ve written about it:
Photography Show.
They’re just trees: frame after frame
of photographic prints, forestry coppicing
mostly in summer – verdant, kharki,
burnt sienna, brick,
you get the picture: trees,
just, trees; yet -
I could roll my back over that hill.
Hug that horse leg stem
that’s dressed in moss,
weave a dress from grassy rugs
and wear it while I swam
in that black river.
I could bind myself in those weeds,
hang myself from those trees.
I could be Ophelia
in that brook – stream, lake, lung -
of water if I could
just press myself against
that gloss of colour -
if the guard
was in another
room.
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