IN GRONINGEN MUSEUM

(for Maria and Marieke)

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers.

Pictures of the weary traveller

sleeping on a train,

slipping slowly down,

sipping seeping rain.

Images of a little boy

learning how to speak,

lips leaking words,

lilting leaping streets.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly.

Eyes floating in the museum

glance from another day,

gorgeous girls on fire,

glaring golden rays.

Flames of a shattered light

bursting on the walls,

buds blazing with life,

blooming beauty curls.

In her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights.

Strands of a lover’s hair

playing in my face,

painful pangs of lust,

pulling parting lace.

Curves of a winter’s bones

thread through my breath,

tears trickling away,

teasing threadbare dress.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.

Shards of sunlit ale

flickering in my throat,

feelings filtering in the air,

fear framing boats.

Canals of soaking memories

drowning in my eyes,

drifting darlings of the past,

draped delicate thighs.

A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high.

Tunes from the fields

call a city’s voices,

coursing chords of love,

crazy calming noise.

Choirs of Groningen fish

hollering in the dawn,

heavenly hearts of folk,

history’s hopes are torn.

They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

KEITH ARMSTRONG