He is a masquerade
Content to sow mischief in the night
And then parade his latest masterpiece
In this case, a morning shadow which looms
Astounding passers-by and critics alike
Who with suitable reverence
Must be seen to observe
What form, what insight, what's nerve!

Next, gathering around a leaf or stem
Painters paint inside,
Sculptors frown at stony ground
While poets leap onto rocks
With grandly spoken offerings
Listening for echoes, hearing no sound.

Unobtrusively we join the queue
Of course belonging to the privileged, chosen few
Hoping we can touch the hands of seers
And peer with them through familiar windows
Recording for posterity, a different view.

And all for what?
For one to exclaim
With hand on heart
Your work really sets me free,
What interpretation
What art,
And of course one of the worst culprits
Is me!