William Logan‘s new book of poems, Rift of Light, will be published next summer by Penguin.
The fault of the river lay behind us.
The rendering came, not of the scene,
but in gouache and leftover paint,
those rude approximations of the ordinary,
Constable done by Bacon, say.
That it all happened two hundred years ago
made little difference to the slaughtered.
The vultures have their saints, it’s said.
Like bedsheets, the clouds tattered in.
New sensibilities rose along the banks.
Small rain came on like birdshot.