Pictures At An Exhibition (Poetry)

She’s here, in all her moods and incarnations —
temptress, goddess, waif and woman-child —
her own small ghost who haunts with fragile beauty,
she spells a natural magic, undefiled.

Everywhere her eyes seek out and find you —
each picture has the power to instill
a sense of the ephemeral — the passing
of dreams this world will ultimately kill.

Her lips, though silent, tell a thousand secrets;
squander softness in a knowing curve;
pout their need and doubt and many hungers;
send a whisper down the optic nerve.

The light has carved her likeness on the ether,
in black and white, her face on every wall —
enchantress, beggar-girl, coquette or orphan,
she acts the part and captivates us all.

She knows the years will coarsen and betray her —
her prime is short, perfection’s days are few —
and we pay tribute, venerate the peerless,
immortalised, she takes it as her due.