01 March 2021

Love and art

Loving is an art:
But I ask you, what is art?
Form and freedom, 
frame and vine,
flesh and veil.

Intangible qualities attach
to a habit, a pattern, a lattice
that allows the unforeseen,
a mad brush, a breath of soul.

If your soul were a vision,
what colour would you be?
Warm or cool, could you name it?

If tangible what texture,
silken or bristled?

And what shape?
Are you a swan or a brindled bat?

Give me a frame to suit you:
Are you circular or square?
A triangle perhaps.


And as for composition,
do you dominate the foreground,
or is that you
slipping away to the left?

Only a detail of your face remains.
Only your finger with that curious ring.

And then you're gone.
A memory — that's all.

I recall the day — that hour, that light —
when your voice first touched me,
the imprint irrevocable.

Love, I discern the edge of you, glowing and hazy.
I might force the search for a definite line.
I might make of you an image never dreamed.
But love unfree is never love to me.





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