Tuesday Tunes – Poetry Through Music, #36, 2016

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Image from Pinterest

[Inspired by Ólafur Arnalds’ “Fyrsta”:]

Fingers like tiny pale branches,

outstretched and frozen

in place, just so, ever reaching,

movement only for a touch –

thought she saw a painting once

like this, image captured,

ever on display in muted colours;

memory crystalline on canvas.

But what about the frame?

Here, golden hair, static with cold

caresses her cheeks, rosy, bitten

by the air; but that painting…

Did she care?  Did it matter if

wood held secure that landscape,

or flaking gilded style?  Focus

blurs as attention fixes once

again on how those twigs,

frosted, so cold to touch, her fingers

now did seem.  Was it her heart?

When had he last called her “queen”?

She lowers her hand and sees

without meaning to the picture

at large: when had she become

so small, so cold?  When

had all her memories merged,

fragmented like ice?  Were they

her fingers, or brushes?  Who

had she been?  How

had she painted her life?

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]