The Eye of the Beholder (I.P.)

She was no artist, or
so she maintained, but
she enjoyed the trying;
ever striving to be as good
as her favourite – Monet...

and now, over a glass
of red wine – taking a break
from my writing, gazing
at her paintings gracing
my walls, I think
she achieved it...

could almost hear
the whine of hoverflies
vying for space near the roof
of a vine-clad pergola...

see the rise of a heat-haze
shimmering on a lawn...

smell the scent of evening
dripping from leaves
of white, tangled jasmine...
all of these...

feel the velvet of roses
and waxen, purple tulips
with midnight stamens...

And in the fast-fleeting
moments when the sun
dallies on the horizon,
reluctant to leave –
keen to bar dusk’s way...

run my palms across
feathered lines and contours
of acrylics and gouache
daubed on board
with a palette knife...
and, often, her hands;

the paint – still warm
from her life. For me,
that beats a Monet...
every time.