TURNER’S CLOUDS FOR PLUMLY
—Cloud cold sky. He was speaking of Turner,though we had just turned the corner on Well Walkand down the last cobbles to the Keats house,its gray-white stone walls gathered like ground fog.He had talked all day—painting to painting—through one long room in London’s National.He bit into his beard to quiet now.Tight grass. Cankered catalpa in half-leaf.
