Crushing colours a palette on a cross

Flipping textures into the tones of the bones,

Tom-All-Alone’s home in the West End of London;

 A sudden perspective on slums,  

A rule of thumb, conditioned by time.

Point of view will not do it for you. 

Sweeping the litter far away, that awful day

Circumstances conspire to a bitter end

A swirl of thumb or a brush with a stroke 

Will choke us up, again and again.

An oily chiaroscuro

Declining light in a swirling sky, 

Rows of cirrocumulus clouds flashing by

An undulating, rippling of waves

Saying goodbye,

To the dappled sunlight on the headstone of her grave.