THREE VISIONS OF MATISSE
A five year old
could have painted that.
On square of canvass
twice my reach,
at eighty four he took
a collection of scraps,
torn pages perhaps
from a lifetime's book of colours.
The blue from the dress
of a reclining guitar player,
the red from the heart
of a fallen Icarus.
Carefully placed
in a spiral of hope.
He called it the snail
and so conjured a trail
of wonder through a world
of infinite hue and shade.
As the crowd moved on
my daughter whispered
That man was wrong dad.
A five year old could never
have made that snail.
It's far too big.
I think maybe I could
paint it when I'm seven.

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