L'Art Pour L'Art

“Any man who doesn’t have
his inner world to translate
is not an artist.”
Theophile Gautier

Snatching a break from embroidering
a cloth...sewing intricate leaves
on countless stems of Californian Lilac,
I take off my glasses – rest my eyes;
decide I need to stretch my legs...maybe
pick some to inspire me;

the meadow – lush and green...
damp with recent rain and the soporific
scent of Queen Anne’s lace as it bows
its mop-cap covered head
to a prevailing wind.

Then, it strikes me how often I forget
how simple, simple is. How honeysuckle
instinctively intertwines with the fence,
while strands of eggnog sunshine thread
their way, nonchalantly, twixt shadows.

How a row of silver-birches – designate
the line between the farmer’s field and mine,
disarm me with their skill in setting themselves
like pencil-etched sketches against a sapphire,
colour-washed sky.

An apron heavy with blooms – go back
inside; pick up my silks...every colour
of the rainbow – my needles, my scissors,
and my thimble, and get to thinking
how, perennially, I strive to organise,
collate, and arrange things....

forever, prissily, placing flowers
in cut-crystal vases. Better to put them
in a simple jar – let them speak for themselves,
more eloquently than I; like the poetry of lilac
framed by a window, lying by the side
of a sweetgrass, sewing basket.