Fujikawa in Winter.

The artist observed that snow is not white,

That colours evolve from minute to minute,

Dissolve then reappear muted, washed out,

As midday clarity drifts into afternoon paleness,

The faded textures of midwinter daylight.

The chill cuts deep, stiletto edged, cruel;

Snow soaking long cloaks and seeping through

                                                       boots.

Villagers trudge warily into the mountains,

Hats pressed over eyes, hands hidden in sleeves.

The one tall tree, the houses, the people,

Sparingly sketched by the artists quick hand.

Silence is tangible, chill heavy, weary,

A hidden presence saturating the depths

Of this view of Fujikawa locked hard into winter. -

If Hiroshige had sketched a single bird on the tree

Then the whole scene would have been glittering

                                                              with music.

As it is, silence is key to the truth of this picture;

A silence I can see, I can hear, I can touch.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

3rd. January 2021.

 From a print by Hiroshige. Poem Number One. The month of January.