In the Gallery
‘It’s so …’ She pauses. Her companion leans
a little closer, staring at the framed
cloudburst of colours. ‘I’m thinking, what it means …’
She falters, modestly. The painter’s named
(relief!) and famous, so her guru speaks
with masculine authority. ‘My dear,
this corner’s Death and there, those abstract peaks
are Alienation, Angst. All very clear.’
Eavesdroppers learn a lot in galleries
and not just art. When they’ve moved on
I try, half-heartedly, to squeeze
his meaning from the canvas. No, it’s gone —
there’s nothing clear. I wonder what he ‘saw’.
And their relationship? Two weeks, no more.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, D.A. Prince would be
pleased to hear them.