Lost, by Stephen Kingsnorth
Canvas the dog that did not bark;
this corner shrunk from sketch to oil.
Some drawers, inviting pull deprived,
inquiries from chest crack removed,
acanthus of pale marble cut,
with facial walls, the smaller match
turned open to a closed affair,
as lucifer enlightened less.
Half empty glass, the see-though stare -
how may more blank intrude the pair?
What need of bright, grey ash cigar,
the stuff of birds that lost their flight
first snared, entrapped, now fade at length.
Hubby, innumerable days,
this schoolfriend now of Sickert’s beer,
and Marie, model, past gone where?
As versions grow, tight patterns flow,
serve yet to further claustrophobe.
Woolf, in sheep’s clothes, sees tales unfold
while Walter paints - there are no words.
Past divas taunt from Camden frames,
with two dreams of what might have been.
Malaise and languor, tedium -
can any strike a light for them?
This poem was first published by Nine Muses Poetry.
Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including The Ekphrastic Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/
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