A Sign


The seven very stars,

That Van Gogh saw at Arles,

Are shining over Morecambe Bay.

"Of course they are " I say,

"Over the whole hemisphere."

It's not they which are rare,

But being their receiver,

As if those certain stars were

Communicaion-satellites. Here,

This estuary looks like his river.

The same faint lights are there

On the far shore. All he longed for

Was across a black, wide river.

Yet above his doubt and despair

He saw The Plough, each star a flower.

Now was Winter. No crops appear.

But all his intense labour

Is emblazoned there, its figure

Triumphs in the sky. Harvest is sure.

Sown seed will bear. He sends his picture.