Giverny (1887)

Thinking on it now, it was like living at sea

beneath the whaleback hills, in those blue

acres of lavender. Our house was a barge,

its chimneys sharing our dreams with the sky.

The barns were islands we would swim to

through the fields, beyond the shoreline

of the lane. Here, we would laze and snooze,

sheltering from the unflinching gaze of the

noonday sun. Marooned on our beds of hay,

we would plot our escape – how one day

we might slip away to Vernon, board the train

to Paris and live as bohemians on the banks

of the Seine, selling our paintings of the north,

telling tales of the blue seas of Normandy.