The gallery is closing now
but Monet has only begun to seep in
dripping through my imagination
one colour, countless tones
a blue myriad crystallised
his world breathe to life, the essence distilled
harmonised and something that binds it all
in eternal stillness
content, accepting of all things
its own being, its own passing

I do not exist there yet
but winter's tingling freshness tastes me
swallows me through pores, filling me
with a thirst to drink more deeply
more deeply, more . . . the chill
the only movement, silence
foot-stepping in the  sunlit snow
of blinding light. On the right
cocooned, two feet deep, a cottage
its cosy creaking darkness hibernates
no smoke from the chimney
but perhaps a fire built, split logs waiting
for a spark to release their stores of sun

“The gallery is closing!” the guard says
him and I the only ones?
I take my bag, glancing at the painting…
there in the mountains
I think someone is coming down,
coming home, they will be cold and hungry
wanting to be home by nightfall…
but for now they drink deeply
up in the blue light.