A downward scrolling journey
to a land of three flat areas
of colour, like a flag - the very thing
I thought that it must be -
led on to later subtleties
of tint and hue injecting life.
These things do not belong to flags.
So, palpitations of excitement - slow,
how slow a scroll can seem!
A Rothko!. Could it be a Rothko,
here for me! But finally,
the end of scroll: a landscape,
simply cut and glued together,
with a sun for atmosphere,
and streaks of liight - all things
you do not find in Rothkos,
not the later ones, not those
whose paint becomes a living
membrane; hints of other worlds,
of new dimensions, filter back and forth,
and worlds you feel but cannot see
creep in the brain. No Rothko then,
this landscape squeezed between
two blocks of colour, something that
he might have put on canvas
had he been fired by intellect
instead of instinct, had his works
been well-behaved, content to wait
there in the corner to be seen
and not those breathing surfaces.
This is my response to this week's prompt from the Writers' Island stable