Beautiful Things

The melting Roman sun exposes every pitted pore

in the dried oil and canvas.

She lay across from her artist, resplendent in silks.

Her cold beauty rings hollow against oranging sunlight, the softening horizon

splashes on Mediterranean brickwork in the elegantly wasted museum.

At the eye of a storm of her own silent words she reclines,

the tide of her speech eroding with loving scorn

her children who chose the scalpel over the paintbrush.

Each damningly clipped syllable nips the other, unbalancing

as crowds gape on, captivated in their disgust.

She bats away the glances as if to say, desperately nonchalant,

‘I’m not yours any more; you are not cut out for the beautiful things.’

.

She’s slipped through his painter’s fingers, remaining,

and scatters his failings like confetti

leaving him

redundant , fleshed out only by love and memory

in a soup of smoke,

enjoying the brink of despair together -

echoing upstream.

I imagine his nod with a whisky glass, he’s

comfortable as the king of cast-offs.

I’m asked why he didn’t give interviews,

didn’t talk.

I turn and reply

‘Because he listens,

he sees.’