From this angle, it appears

a landscape breathes on static glass,

oils rouged with expertise

careen to match the swaying grass –

branches taunt my unscathed knees,

pregnant clouds extol my tears –

And I have sat and watched for years.

Confined inside a cultured class

to study pastelled willow trees

and watch the world slowly, slowly pass –

perhaps when no one’s left to please

I’ll wander where the painting clears