Lisa Foale Processwork

12/12/2023

Oregon Woods 2022
oil on canvas, 90 x 56cm

02/12/2023

Ascent
Oil on Canvas 84 x 59 cm

02/12/2023

Sun Behind Trees 2023
Oil on Canvas 33 x 25 cm

19/11/2023

❤️

01/10/2023

26/02/2023

'Girl with Birds' collage

20/08/2021

night swimmer

20/08/2021

The Mockingbird
by Mary Oliver

All summer
the mockingbird
in his pearl-gray coat
and his white-windowed sings

flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing, but it's neither
lilting nor lovely,

for he is the thief of other sound–
whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges
plus all the songs
of other birds in his neighborhood;

mimicking and elaborating,
he sings with humbor and bravado,
so I have to wait a long time
for the softer voice of his own life

to come through.  He begins
by giving up all his usual flutter
and settling down on the pine's forelock
then looking around

as though to make sure he's alone;
then he slaps each wing against his breast,
where his heart is,
and copying nothing, begins

easing into it
as though it was not half so easy
as rollicking,
as though his subject now

was his true self,
which of course was as dark and secret
as anyone else's,
and it was too hard–

perhaps you understand–
to speak or to sing it
to anything or anyone
but the sky.