Sweet light snuffed out, they laid her dress, wrapped
Loosely with crisp, white lining, in a box,
Anonymous, shelved in darkness, it rests,
Turning yellower with the passing years.
She has a haunted look, her spirit trapped
As keys grind round in irrevocable locks,
Anxiety thudding wildly at her breasts.
There’s no way back through this veil of tears.
Did these dry bones live? In deft tones of paint
Her rosy flesh survives. You sense a faint
Impression, enough to realise need
To delve beyond the brushstrokes you first read,
Understand what was in that image lost
White hot passion beneath a sheet of frost.
The ceasefire in Lebanon is holding good so far. Time to draw breath. Back to Klimt. There's a touch of Miss Haversham here.