on the canvas
i drew her
across, around
within, without
in all colour and shade
of great cities
and their country.

her eyes as London
and the cheeks as Tanzania;
her palms as Athens
and the shoulders all
Himalaya -

every bone or edge in
wonderful chromatic.

the canvas changed and bled,
as did i but
by year’s end, the mosaic,
worldly woman was now
rested there in full.

stood in blank
dark
mossy room
covered in art and age
i called upon her name

but alas
i could no longer remember.