A Nocturne

After my father died there was a terrible silence,

We searched for memories,

One day someone sent a painting he had done

Back to us.

A nocturne in the true style of Whistler,

My father was a great admirer of Whistler.

He studied under Sickert though.

A small painting, ten by eight,

It took up very little space,

The moonlit scene was calm:

Some lights, a moon, no trees a distance town

Hardly a fence, the top of some small hut,

Perhaps a river or some such flickering light,

The colours few,

A little yellow, mostly blue,

His signature diminutive a little quaint,

Almost hidden in the paint.

And on the back someone had written”Karlsruhe,”

painted while prisoner of war

After Cambrai 1917.

Caroline Baldock©1980