Is there a lack of beauty in what I write?
Doesn’t the curve of the sky
behave in an appropriate way
in the lines I pin it to?
This fantastical imitation
of a tree falling to its grave,
insects clinging to bark, birds
trapped with fledglings in a hollows
These are declarations, and beauty
has to find its way out. Those sculptures
of our habitation, our shelter
under that virulent sun.
Standing before a masterpiece
that has hung on walls for too long,
I can declare beauty touched and retouched,
fading colours retuning the senses.