The Poet at his Desk, Framed
Illustrated by Samantha Fulton. The room is ours alone.
Security alarms buzz in their antiquity,
The ankle-height wire vibrates under tension.
I stare deeply into the oil of
Your eyes.
More depth than on book covers
Or newspaper cuttings.
He has captured you well —
Tall, imposing, struggling to
Fit your legs under a dainty painted table.
Not quite the sturdy
Farm kitchens of Bellaghy.
Behind you, blackbirds peep.
Deep greens and teals
Embrace you — perhaps
A nod to home and the many
Hues it wears.
Today is not quite
The shade knew, but the
Foliage of peace is trying.
“Five minutes, Miss”
But sir —
We have not even begun
To embrace the silence
Of a Belfast gallery.
Would he elegise the summer footfall,
Or pen an ode to those who
Pursue art in the lonely hours?
Two minutes left.
The room is ours alone.
I’d ask you what you’re reading,
But instead I stand and face you,
Puzzling every line upon your
Face and page.
Closing time.
The room is yours, alone.