A man is playing Spanish guitar
In the lounge of the gallery.
An old man is sketching, with power,
With hands years younger
His eye dances back
From his object to image
He rubs his nose, irritated
That he is still made of flesh.
A couple: older, monkish
Watch the historical display scroll by
Voices echo from the foyer
A flock of school children, leaving
Having passed through once
Pausing at each point
Some corner of their eye
The guitarist pauses
Begins with a fresh guitar
To make it new again.
On the floor above, the paintings hang.
One hundred melodies
From one instrument
Carved by one hundred songs.
On the floor above, the paintings wait
For a stray heart, a careless eye
Ready to be devoured
By the heart and eye
Will be posting some poetry written while at the Prado exhibition currently at the Queensland Art Gallery.