I remember the sun;

the sun was important,

although all the art was inside

and in perfect pride of place,

skirting the walls

and planted in rows.

My feet young, but the air old,

and moss overgrown on

the war memorial outside.

 

True, you need light for shade,

a chiaroscuro, and

a half-full glass raised.

The place is almost silent

with must, damp, old coins and ink,

HB pencil and faithful easel.

Beside the door rests

a silent, seasoned, seen-it-all guardian,

a sentry of the ages.

 

Twenty years later I wander in,

back home temporarily.

I shuffle round briefly,

then write in the guest-book:

"Linda White, the portrait with

the butterflies...she clearly doesn't know

how to use apostrophes."

It's a good day, but all too brief,

and the colours seemed

to have faded.

 

Image © Ian Potts