Poetry of line.
A house stands on a morning hillside,
Quivering through the dewy haze.
An Italian scent rising with the sun,
An intense suggestion of shapes.
He looks at the landscape
As if at his palms, seeming
Random collection of sharp marks
To craft soft foliage or
A living hand
Line of poetry.
A collection of domestic vessels
Cluster smartly,looking out oddly.
An Italian scent rising from the cloth
An intense order of natura morta.
He looks at the homely
With a half closed stare, seeming
Creating rounds, fluted and handled
To create solid with light
A living gaze
Giorgio Morandi at the Estorick.