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
