As the Light Shifted 1996

Those beautiful wildflowers of Langley lived many times, in quite a lot of my compositions. I remember during a break from that watercolour, the Wildflowers of Langley 1996. The sun began to set behind the row of large pine trees along our property line. My studio darkened rapidly. And on a whim; I created this almost abstract painting with its sketchy qualities.

Spring Daffodils of Hazelmere 1988

The vendors along the road side with their colourful signs of directions,
Would summon the prospected buyers to lurch off the highways,
Into the make shift parking spots,

Looking at those yellow flowers of spring,
Elastic and pretty,
Saying, "each bundles ten dollars!"

With that certain squeaking sound from the stems,
Tightly bundled together and ready for the sale,

We just left and drove on past and greeted the sweet campbell river,
All grey today,
The banks delicately festooned with the late march snowfall,

Peeping through,
Those stubborn daffodils would not be silenced,
Into another sleep,
Those bobbing pale petals,
With their orangey-yellow trumpets,

Stood proud and erect,
Ready for the selection and pickings,
By all who would venture along the rivers bank,

We love the hunt for the wild daffodils,
And those vendors had arrived earlier in the quiet dawn,
To grab all the abundant Spring yellowy gifts,

I'm so happy some flowers eluded their greedy snatches,

Their vehicles left tracks of chaos and hurry,
Which muddied that snowy dike trail,
But their funny footprints showed a higgledy-piggledy dance of confusion,
Which probably the herons and kingfishers chuckled at, high up in the cottonwoods.

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The Watercolour Memories of Cypress Bowl 1985

That image faded into a wash of distant pines and firs,
Only my vivid memory remained,
The keeper of my dreams and the silent witness,
Would be those stoic pines and timid firs,
They'll all smile back from their dizzying heights,
Whom amongst you saw a man revealing his inner emotions?,
Those luxurious hues spread veraciously on canvas,
That elusive ideal image cried out as a continuous birth,
Somewhat like that of an unknown new being,
Born into a natural world,
Articulating their presence their here,
The sounds in which the baby needs to be nurtured,
Oh, those views with their impressions,
Sending those soft colour of washes reveling to the command,
Of a personal representation,
Thanks to the Heavens I would think to myself,
That day the earth radiated all that warmth,
And created the mirage only that medium could manage,
To bring forth in the soft treatment and emotions of that day at Cypress Bowl,
I still tremble with that certain Feeling of Art,
Which one has to create in their own style,
Each tree reached to the Heavens,
Upon venturing back along that secret gravel trail,
At the bowl those trees would greet the tired traveller with his gear,
And all the growth different now but those feelings still familiar and nearer.

Wild Yellow Marsh Irises along the Nicomekl River 1996

We all plunged down along the soft lushes banks in the spring of '96,
Traversing into the shallows near the rivers edge,
As the blood hounds wallowed clumsily and jostled into our bodies,

Only the greenish-grey waters of the Nicomekl gently kissed our heels,
The painting party ventured out with individual bags of colour and liquid expressions,
And lay claim to their particular views which I found everyone especially breathtaking,

An open-aired joyous interpretation tantalized us into silence,
And the work of that quickening day begun,
A rocking motion created by the breeze moved the bag perched in the centre of my easel,

The tree swallows visited our sight,
With playful aerial dances they especially glided by our hands,
Curious to the motions and perhaps wanting to assist in dappling a wing into the palette,
And leaving their mark on the canvas board,

I wondered if they would accidentally fly through the composition,
Into a make believe world of hope and beauty,

They played and fed on the insects and made sweet tweaking sounds on every swoop,

Hours past by and marsh irises and the river appeared and lived on that surface now,
One would never want a day like that to end but the clocks ticking on,
And the inevitable task of packing up began,

Some of the other members would destroy their own moment with every critic,
I, on the other hand loved that painting and change nothing,
As it was the study of a moment along the Nicomekl,
On a perfect Spring day.