Liberations

Hell was a few hundred metres away He felt the shelling and the guns

deep in his dentin in his pulpy nerves but not where he applied his paints The very essence of beauty was close

He did not see the rush and wit

through his cataracts only each canvas

and plays of light and lines of sight

Claude Monet hid

in the pink, yellow and white of lilies

The water’s blue

swept him to safety with each skilled brushstroke

His solo life

felt palatable due to his palette

Nagging sadness was lost

washed away by each waterscape

He bolted Time onto the changing lights

Water lilies were the stellar

events that made France cry and made us all cry

The water beneath was healing

The freedom from pain in his studio

bestrode his soul and all our souls

It insulated the world from control

and all decay in straying hearts

His flower garden was the leading source

of a new freedom

Petals were the keys their stalks were bone jutting out from wet flesh

The flower grails sat on water