by ROSS JACKSON
redeemed from his office like a debenture note
Bernard mooches on the bateau
burden of sun weight impresses him to his steamer chair
and despite the Parisian clamour there
his thoughts expand from current files
to the orchestrated auburn hair of a vapid tourist
below his throat, holiday fresh bow tie—
beau monde colours:
Kandinsky pink and purple, Matisse black and sky;
notice thereby given, he’s not indifferent
to the choke of passion, that colourful tangle
biting at the Adam’s apple making, naturellement—a knot of fashion
at mid-afternoon, when spotted from the pont
Bernard dozing on deck, storing solar power
on the lenses of his tortoise shell rimmed specs
before a passing boulevardier with a piano accordion
triggers… Animation!
Bernard’s cravat begins stirring, colours blurring
the spirited tie ascends; its wings transcending cloth
a flimsy, hovering moth at first, then a whirring humming bird
C’est fantastique!
as the tie is going past, Bernard spots it with his painterly eye
becomes incarnation of the artist stereotype
even minus a brush
depicts a trick of delight