The Painter’s Vision

“Use red for the eyes,” she said, “use red,”
and peered from my shoulder “She’s one of the dead
that haunt the building on Old Carver’s Lane –
Have you felt her cold hands; have your seen her again?”

I told her to hush and gave her a stroke
and tickled her feathers and fed her a roke.
“She’s no more dead than you are, or I,
I’ve not spoken to her but tomorrow I’ll try.”

“You’ll try and you’ll fail,” she said, grooming her tail,
“She’ll open her mouth but her voice has gone stale.
Stick with your figurines, paint four or five
and leave the drowned women for those still alive.”

“Are you saying I’m dead?” I cried with alarm;
“These words that you speak will do nothing but harm.”
“I’m fit as a flea and alive as a herring
I’ll thank you to keep your own thoughts for un-sharing.”

“Of course you are fit,” she replied with a sigh.
“I said it before as the centuries rolled by.
You perfected your art by light of the day
but you shy from the truth, Mister Dorian Gray.”