Merryn Williams
The Muse
I painted her but never dared embrace her
those long and aching months she posed. My brush
caught fire. They said it was my greatest picture.
I chewed the stale sour bread of abstinence.
The carmine, chestnut, wild-rose tints I yearned for,
those breathing lips, those blue amazing eyes –
all caught! She had a husband who ignored her.
I cut him out. I lunged for paradise.
I tread these galleries now, as light grows greyer;
the dust-sheets draped, the young men’s pictures skied.
The Royal Academy delights to honour
my name; years back, I crossed the great divide.
Observe us at a garden crush in Windsor;
all scandal dead; me in my high silk hat
and she – I married her and she is older.
My brush has dried; I’ll paint no more like that.
skied – hung above eye level.
Page(s) 54
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