By John Pearson
On used scraps of board,
paint brush strokes
made their mark –
the silent aftermath
of a city scarred,
blitzed, battered and burned;
rubble piled high in streets,
glass splinters, heaps of plastered bricks,
floor-boards, door frames –
decades of honest Portsmouth dust.
Away from war-damage
you painted your St James’ home.
Boiler-room chimney stack
shading the glint of sunlight
on swimming pool roof windows;
horse-drawn carts clop slowly
past green-plumed poplars and
neat, squat, leather-leaved cabbages
on parade in languid lines
leaning toward Portsdown Hill.
Even the shanty-town High Street
of Milton Locks caught your eye –
tethered, weathered hulks,
black, bitumen-basted boats
surrounded by sea-weeded gardens;
gang-planked and gated
rows of Romany-like maritime caravans –
homes for bombed-out people
sifted and saved from Portsmouth’s ashes,
your legacy preserved in oils.
June 2016
