A poem, a place, a painting

Loose leaf no. 6

Paul Cézanne, La Baie de l'Estaque vue de l'est

Lately I’ve been thinking about how intuitively we feel the conveyance of season. Spring dissipating into summer. Like the unhurried crawl of an ice cream cone melting across hot pavement. Light into light, sun stretching its arms wide, towards opposite poles, until on the solstice it can reach no further.

The days will soon begin to lessen in a way that’s mostly imperceptible. I’m writing on the eve of the solstice, from an apartment in Marseille where the balcony faces north. By late evening, dune coloured buildings, roofs the shade of tomatoes are awash in the glow of day’s end. It’s around this time of year that I return to a poem by Linda Gregg, titled The Light Continues. Each year I find something new in it to admire:

“When the sun / is gone, the light continues / high up in the sky for a while.”