Dark man. Dark dog.

The Lakes Theirs is a mountain A thin air realm Red as peril When the sun peeps out There to scramble Fell Do a Dorothy Before halfhearted tourists arrive From a false summit Avalanches of russet scree Pre-painted Dumb geology Morn Ian McMillan

The old tower at Whitton. Startled sheep. Large charcoal.

Early stroll. A bedroom light goes on, goes off, goes on again. A distant shout, streets away. A traffic cone on the back of a flatbed truck. The sky is as broad as it’s long. Morning is both the bottle and the message in the bottle.

Celebrating the world wide webs this morning.

Art for art’s sake…

Cyprus In a cumulative effect They coalesce in droves Tend to form a sect Amongst olive groves The bitter lemons bite Carobs are not ripe The UN are in sight Susceptible to hype I sneaked across the line Talking to the hand They feed us all fine In no-man’s land M Ian McMillan

Two views of the harvest. Oil on board.

Morning stroll across damp grass. Pigeons mark my approach with flapping. Caravans sleep, apart from one which barks itself awake. A plane plays hide and seek with clouds. A wild rose in a place where a caravan was.

Harvest The watchword is in doubt They are out night and day Churning phalanxes of ochre drops Shaving hills of sunlight In neat stripes We skirt the edge like insects Flitting nettles and loomed By mobile factories Churning glutinous chaff Into damp air Morn Ian McMillan

The edge of the road. Oil and detritus on canvas.

Trimontium A far horizon Three hills One pyre The end of empire Haze of gold rays Sun-dipped Long days We gauge time By distance The visibility Or hue An interpretation Is due The fierce blows Of ages beat Crags to rocky feet And Roman lords To a country retreat M Ian McMillan

Poppies at junction. Large charcoal and chalk on cartridge paper.

Early stroll. I carry a white rectangular envelope to post. The way streetlights reflect on parked cars. A guard of honour of grey bins. A dropped piece of torn cardboard in the shape of a fish. Late summer’s painted shadows.

Epicurean cattle On the far brow A herd crunches cud Plonked curiously in a huddle Patience rewards the artist Resigned to censorship Into the mooning fizzog goes art The quick disposal of a selfie Crunch-chomp Glasspaper tongues Drawing turned to pats Morn Ian McMillan

The Kale from the local woods: flow, sluggish. Oil, pencil, charcoal on paper.

Early stroll. A tree like a hyper-realist painting of a tree. A man in vivid hi-vis walks by. Three black buckets in a skip. I accidentally kick a can percussively. Someone stumbles out of a taxi, thanking the driver again and again.

Early stroll. A dark sky, seemingly deep in thought. A bathroom window feebly lit by a ghost bulb. The white van with the papers in passes me. That deflated ballon has been hanging on that wire for weeks. A black gate held shut by blue string.

High Road Seeing it as an omen Or a dream divulged of weirdness The road to the next village Deceptive bends, adverse cambers Unspoiled to the watershed I could scream (well, I did) Air shocked my hearing aids The bike gave in to gravity Heading home like a stone M Ian McMillan

Kalewater, at a glance. Oil on paper.