M.E. Muir


Barely the staircase Corinthian pillared
would be brightening my mood on its gleamed ebony handrail
with attendants hovering to protect your pictures
for even the peacock does not lighten my fevered emotion.
Would that the dark framed battleship hesssian
were totally obscured by God’s arm outstretched across the looming clouds
for one must have obscurity, obscurity and intensity
at Lord Leighton’s House

Alma Tadema’s bathing nudes
are lit by Greek sunshine from their home in the Grove End Road.
Looking away I search for coffee shops
for even this philistine longs for a tall blonde Cranach
stripped of Edwardian accoutrements
as I struggle through room after room in the nightmare passageways of Holland Park
standing purely in simplicity, simplicity and upright
like the swan.


© M. E. Muir


Yes. From the ocean and to there I will return
but Bunuel is now, drowning in drink and chocolate.
Red stream from the leather bota to her ruby lips
on the mountain south of Granada. Later
creamy nude Cranachs recline on the rough grass
and outlook to the sea. Ahoy Ocean. Come for me.
Ectoplasms congregate slowly for there is business
at this table while we drink to the Green Man
and in the ocean Grendel is waiting for me.

© M. E. Muir

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