The Gallery Of Frost (Poetry)

There are no walls so white as these
the exhibition’s pure
where beauty spreads a quiet disease
for such there is no cure

The petal hangs its perfect curve
caught on the opening night
its flush of life defines the nerve
held rigid in Dawn’s light

Each leaf picked out in sharp relief
all colour muted by
the weather’s artist bound in grief
and shedding a cold sigh

These open rooms stretch airy bright
in silent early view
of crystal-calculated sight
sun-polished to look through

Where Frost has claimed collected works
and strung them high and low
for eyes who seek those frozen quirks
he briefly puts on show

Too soon the gallery dissolves
and Art so pure is lost
all sacrifice lies unresolved
while Death counts up the cost