Kelvingrove I
Arrested in the mind of an artist(Perhaps guided by his child-eye,
School-day work-bench smell on his tools)
In a feline climb,
This hefty white one
Has his eye on a
Detail of sticks.
And has a mind
To extirpate.
His hands and thighs
Are bloody with Burnt Sienna.
Did he rob one nest before
And wipe his sticky paws
Down that way?
And now he intends
To plunder another?
But in his scaffold, he can’t progress to swipe.
By some misfortune his tail is cracked,
And in his creases is mouldy caber-cancer growth.
Even so, his balance is keen and persuasive;
With a petrified permanence.
January 2005