Thursday, 9 April 2015

Poem 8 After Whistler

After Whistler


When an admirer of James McNeill Whistler told him a woman had remarked on her early morning walk about how closely nature came to some of his evocative canvases, Whistler was exultant. "Ah!" he said. "So nature is catching up!"

The type of morning

that spent an hour or so in bed

before deciding to be brilliant.


A haze of indecision burnt off

by a blaze of gold

playing one-upmanship with the breeze.


Walks become therapy not function.

Muscles not used since Christmas

play origami, folding smiles


out of winter-creased faces.

Look closely and you’ll notice

cares, worries, the occasional burden


caught high on budding branches,

flying at full mast

like witch’s knickers.


Another cycle of seasons,

one more circuit of the sun,

a reminder of the need


to stop, be thankful and breathe.

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