Greying auburn hair – set ablaze
by late evening sunshine,
as she gazes from a window,
over terracotta roofs – steaming
after the rain. Presses her face
against the glass, and then sits
beside the fire – warming her hands
in the flicker of austerity; arthritic
of wrist and fingers.
Hands that, once, were inspired
by chalk, charcoal, gouache,
oils and acrylics. These days,
though, her eyes don’t see too good...
not anymore; even still, they burn
like bonfires, and the scene
she depicts, does have a certain,
‘je ne sais quoi...’
A rickety easel – grubby rags
hang like flags at half-mast...
A room, a chair, a table – a lone
rose in a cloisonné vase, chipped
and dented, rusting in parts,
and a peach-cheeked lovebird
in a cage with crooked bars –
painted the greenest, somberest,
strongest shade of hope.