I, born of the title of
Virginia Woolf’s sister
Mourn the passing of my paintings in the privacy of this new home
No. 8 Fitzroy Sq. bombed last night – art the only fatality
Clustered, cloistered, perhaps, by other people’s things
Second hand. The generosity of others is not unwelcome
the task at hand to make of them her own, is, in itself, an art form
After all, one can always paint more paintings
The poppies remained.
How apt that death survives
Now hangs in the corner of the back room.
Next to the fireplace, where this life steps outside
Removes itself from the concentric circles of a particular triangle
A Sussex Bloomsbury
Welcomes and becomes, in itself
A new life, underlined,
with a sisters full stop.
But never outdoes
Plants a garden of poppies,
of cotton lavender, lupins and iris
This garden, her garden,
a formal layout with unruly plantings
Where each year,
She saves the circular nut, and seed
From the wisteria, who, once bloomed
Once purple now pulp-brown
Knocks one last time against her bedroom window
This wind, in grey circles, hits the house
And takes her, finally, with it.