As each hour fell from the window
it would rise again like a sun dial
and lead the night into another day,
walking beside water-colour and acrylic,
squeezing past a stained wood carving
and placing a hand upon a pencil sketch
that never grew to be attired in oils.
 
Pictures left briefly to return, rejuvenated.
Others became empty frames for memories.
Gone from my gaze the pose of faces
ageing in nuanced lines and folds
while I remain. Still hanging around,
I am an image changed by many hours
into faded colours behind cracking varnish.
 
This room is dressed for family events
with flowers, candles and eulogies
to be put away after the final day –
its date known only to the artist.
I am yet to meet him face to face
but I believe he removes each portrait
to hang it anew in a better gallery.

Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Susan Wilson  would like to hear them