Is in the next room
Behind the dividing wall
Hidden from my view, as I sit
On this wooden contemporary seat
Listening to whispered conversations
Listening to, meditating; feeling the flow
Of the colder air, from the air-conditioning
One wonders
That it is not sprinkled
With the scent of salt, or the blood
Of mackerel, or the smouldering slag-heaps
Of coal, or the miasma of war, or the shipwrecks
Caught by oil on canvas in the artists London studio
One might also ask
Why do I write, while my
Friends study the paintings
Why do I write, when I specifically
Came here, to be immersed in the art
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