Letter to Monet

It wasn't until leaving

the Portrait Gallery & standing

in the clatter of tourists, pigeons

& doubledeck buses in Trafalgar

Square that I took to walking

down to the Thames, to lose dark

thoughts among the web

of quick turning alleys, bookstalls

& pubs.

There, motorboats tossed

among the sunset's glitter

rocking in the waves, the spires

of Big Ben & Parliament stood breaking

through the fog, & over to the east

one young painter nestled

the river's edge, tracing the skyline

& shimmering landscape.

Perhaps

it was vanity,

but as fog wrapped around, riverbirds

cooed & steel buoys rocked

& sounded on the water,

I snuggled close to the steel railing

overlooking the Thames

& hoped beyond hope-

as I wrapped a thick scarf against

wind coming on-the painter might

place, with a small black smear

just above the railing, or shimmer

of light just where the stone quay

reached down to the brown

& erratic waves, my soul here forever,

one crooked niche in an intimate landscape.