Monet’s Lilies by Monica Suswin

Abegail Morley


If I was not fascinated with this flow
of human-kind shuffling their startling
display of foot-wear which keep the plump,
the spindly, the squat and rakish tall on the move.
All these bodies with an astounding array of head-size

makes me wonder how neural pathways
branch out and filter all this information
inside each individual skull safe-guarding
a mass of soft tissue as eyes fix more often
to a bright screen than a painting

glowing. If I could gaze at these lilies
for sixty seconds without this juggernaut
of a side-show or better still if I was in Giverny
in summer looking over to that Japanese foot-bridge

or perhaps if I was there in 1916 en plein air
watching the portly white-suited artist daubing,
daubing his brush, his palette of colour,
daubing light onto canvas. If I could look

and lose myself in shades of green, strokes of…

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