Like a dappled Ophelia
she lies in her bath
as a young bride, as the matron
at the end of her life.
His first love, his last love:
the woman who was Bonnard’s wife
stands shaded by shutters
or doused in light streaked in to glaze
the salon chairs, the table arranged
for a breakfast of colours.
It never ceased,
the flamboyant, the subdued
courtship of the artist
and the muse whose likeness never aged
but stayed the same
with poise, with insouciance.
From A New Tenancy, Dedalus Press, 2004
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