I make the catalogue again,
Moving my father’s paintings
Around and between rooms.
I relabel them,
Enter details and dimensions
Into a machine,
Which wasn’t even thought of
When the paint was laid down.
Some paintings are unfinished
Suggesting schemes and visions
That never came to fruition.
I see images of life
Happening before I was born,
People building haystacks with pitchforks,
Bombed streets, ack ack guns
And barrage balloons,
Vases of bright flowers
And portraits of dead beauties.
All now long gone.
I too will depart soon,
But the brush strokes, oil and canvas
May live longer.
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