Horse Heaven Hills 2 Study. Oil on Linen Panel. 6" x 8".
Back when Poplar trees were more rare, I found them to be ominous. Probably because I'd once memorized a poem about them. To this day I think of this poem when I see Poplars.
by Arna Bontemps
Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.
There is a sound of music echoing
Through the open door
And in the field there is
Another sound tinkling in the cotton:
Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.
The years go back with an iron clank,
A hand is on the gate,
A dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down
And poplars stand there still as death.