The Portrait Options

[Guest_Gregory_*]

The Portrait (1st Revision) 29/08

Seasons go where they have been to
as surely as a breath will come
or seed emerge sunflower; acrylic
may lose its colour, fade, be buried under
light, never make another scene;
nor can our curtains screen out winter.

I recall we talked tall politic
till rosy morning. Your clever grin
betrayed no malaise but rum
plump cheeks hiding sorrow under.
You have gone, and your face is going.
Too soon you rose to close the window,

pull the curtain shut on cold wind blowing
from the south, and on the north wall glowing,
your painted eyes like Mona’s, cheeky as a heretic,
seemed to close. “I must be going” you would hum
to yourself a busy Zephyr sporting thunder
then withdrew from that fervent dream,

you came, at last, to spin to.
Spring blossom retouches the washed out winter
with fine brush strokes, the Eucalypt gum
sprays its heavy scent with enduring candour.
I take your portrait, for spring is ever clean
where last years flowers grace your basilica.

I rest it on the headstone of your going.
We never saw the evergreen
heaving snow, or wilted under
alien suns, nor into
freshness ever brought the cyclic
no! The pallor of your pelle appalled your rum

perplexity, no more to Rome would you be going.
Our love, never idyllic
but in part, an intimate wonder,
capped by a still life and a tragic swing
into shallow stump-full water under the silver Beech
whose gum-nuts, hung around the frame, have become

my reason to refuse the cyclic negation, to come
into the season’s deciduous scene
with its thunder, and go with its going.


Original

The Portrait

Winter woes go and come
and those who fear the going
will never see the evergreen
heaving snow, or wilt in heat under
alien shores, nor into
freshness ever bring the cyclic

no! That the year is never idyllic
but in part may be, is no wonder
for the months that true joys bring
are few, and tragedy may come
more often than gum-nuts on the silver Beech.
Seasons go where they have been to

as surely as a breath will come
or seed emerge sunflower; acrylic
may lose its colour, fade, be buried under
light, never make another scene -
nor can our curtain screen out winter.
You have gone, and your face is going.

I recall we talked tall politic
till rosy morning. Your clever grin
betrayed no malaise but rum
plump cheeks hiding sorrow under.
Too soon you rose to close the window,
pull the curtain shut on cold wind blowing

from the south, and on the north wall glowing,
your painted eyes like Mona’s, cheeky as a heretic,
seemed to close. “I must be going” you would hum
to yourself as busy as Zephyr sporting thunder
then withdrew from that fervent dream,
you came, at last, to spin to.

Spring blossom retouches the washed out winter
with fine brush strokes - the Eucalypt gum
sprays its heavy scent with enduring candour.
I take your portrait, for spring is ever clean
where last years flowers grace your basilica.
I rest it on the headstone of your going.

I now refuse the cycle of negation. Come
when this season’s forevergreen
comes and go when it is going.