Two Poems

‘Meditation’

Sunlight in a sitting-room, memento
Of an afternoon’s longueur, when Mme. Monet,
Positioned on a canapé, is pleased
To become paint, till so much time’s elapsed
While he adjusts the details and design
That, No, she will not wait to see it signed!
Her finger taps impatiently. She’s tried
And tried, but her book calls her. She is tired
Of sitting all these hours as a statement
Of Claude’s love, art’s selfish testament.
Perhaps he tells her all models have aspired
To be their painters’ muses, and be praised.
But she has much to do – there are the precise
Amounts required for the day’s recipes,
Seeing a consommé clear or a sauce thicken
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